Turn
by Flaignhan
Summary: "Remorse," he says, resuming his pacing and looking up towards the ceiling. "Yes I've heard of that before. Isn't that something that the weak feel? When they lack conviction?"
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I have no idea where this is going. This is one of those meandery ones where I'm just like 'fuck it, let's roll'. My main concern is that this is 5,500 words long, and I actually started it way before Golden, so maybe don't expect the next bit before next week. Also, just a note on how early it was started - it was before the trailer where we saw Loki kicking off in his cell, having his little magic tantrum, so here he's stripped of his powers, as part of his sentence. Anyway, that's about it, hope you enjoy it, let me know what you think! =]

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**Turn**

**by Flaignhan**

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She doesn't know whether to feel honoured or uneasy. Of all the people he could have chosen, it was her roof he had come crashing through in the middle of the night.

The ceiling of the hallway is as high as a mountain, and it's completely deserted. The sound of her shoes clicking against the marble floor echoes around them, and soon, Thor leads her through a huge set of heavy, wooden double doors which, despite his impressive strength, she's still amazed he can open.

"We are most grateful for your assistance," he says at last. "You will be generously rewarded."

"Cool," she says with a shrug, not really caring about any sort of reward. She's still being paid by SHIELD, so it's not like she's here as a freebie. And besides, she's curious.

"My father's birthday is traditionally a day of rest for all, including the guards. But you understand he cannot be left alone. Even in his cell."

"D'you think he can escape?"

"I think it unwise to assume anything about my brother. He is full of surprises."

Natasha frowns. She is fully aware that she's a damn good fighter, but she's human, and he's not. It'd be like going at a tiger with your bare hands.

"He has been stripped of his powers, you have nothing to fear."

"I'm not _afraid_," she says, and immediately, she wishes she hadn't said anything at all. The words sound so childish as they fall from her lips, but Thor says nothing. Eventually, they descend down a set of stone steps, flaming torches hanging from iron brackets on the walls, their orange glow giving just enough light to see to the bottom of the stairwell.

"I take it there's no wi-fi down here..." Natasha says, not even bothering to glance at her phone.

Thor chuckles and they turn into a long, narrow corridor. "We have no need for your mortal magic here. If you grow bored, I can have somebody fetch you books."

"I'm good," Natasha says. "Maybe your brother can entertain me." She smiles wryly, and Thor chuckles.

"I doubt it. He fluctuates between apathy and the foulest of moods."

"Sounds like fun," she says with a sigh.

Thor gives her a small smile before removing the chains from the last door at the end of the corridor. It's only now that Natasha realises how low the ceilings are down here in comparison to the halls above them. She glances down at the thick chains that Thor is pulling away from the handles.

"Are they going back on when you leave?"

"Yes."

"Locked in a dungeon with a psychopath... awesome," she says, her breath hitching slightly in her throat. Thor smirks, but says nothing, and after a moment, he pushes the door open.

The room is large, but claustrophobic. Thor's head is inches from the ceiling, and the lighting is so poor that she cannot see into the darker reaches of the room.

Loki's cell, however, is brightly lit. It is a ten by ten square in the centre of the dungeon, surrounded by glass. Inside, there is a table with a jug of water and a small cup. Loki himself sits on the floor, his pale skin almost lost in the stark white of the walls. His hair is long, scraggly, and so far removed from the way she remembers him. He casts a bored glance in her direction, then looks up at his brother.

"You brought a mortal to guard me."

"She will be more than sufficient."

"The feast will be starting at any moment...run along, _brother_."

"Ring the left bell should you need assistance," Thor says, ignoring Loki, and gesturing to two ropes by the door. "And the right for sustenance."

"Okay," Natasha says. "That everything?"

"Not quite," Thor says, taking a step up towards the wall of Loki's glass enclosure. "You can enter the cell, and you can leave the cell."

"What?"

"Put your hands on the glass," Thor says, though his gaze is focused on Loki, his eyes narrowed, daring him to try something.

Natasha follows orders, and places her palms flat against the glass. She feels disoriented, just for a second, but the feeling passes, and when it does, she is inside the cell. Thor is on the outside, still glaring at Loki, who rolls his eyes and turns to Natasha.

"I'd be lying if I said it were a pleasure, Agent Romanov," he says silkily.

"The feeling's mutual," she replies, her jaw set. She reaches her hand back, just a few inches, and presses it flat against the glass once more. The dizzying feeling is gone as quickly as it comes, and she is standing next to Thor once more.

"If you behave," Thor says darkly, "I will have some of the food from the feast sent down."

"That's good of you," Loki sneers.

"Take it or leave it," Thor says, stepping back, away from the glass. "But if you so much as breathe the wrong way, you'll have nothing at all."

Loki rolls his eyes, and it's only now that Natasha realises how sunken they are, how hollow and gaunt his face is in the harsh light. She remembers a damaged Loki from New York, pale and sweating, and covered in scars, but this is a new level, even for him.

Thor inclines his head towards Natasha respectfully, then turns on his heel, his scarlet cape billowing behind him. In the distance, she hears the door shut with a quiet thud, and then the heavy clinking of the chains as they are secured. She wonders how long the feast will go on for, whether the lure of good food will be enough to keep Loki's desire for chaos at bay.

There is a high backed chair in the corner, which she presumes is meant for her, and so she drags it towards Loki's prison, the legs scraping noisily against the floor. He sighs heavily and leans his head back against the wall of his cell. When Natasha is satisfied with the new furniture arrangement, she takes a seat, tucking her legs under herself and leaning against the intricately carved armrest. The patterns and notches dig into her flesh, but she doesn't move; the chair had been far more difficult to manoeuvre than expected and so she is determined to make it worthwhile, to appear as though the effort had been worth it, even if that means ignoring the fact that she would have been just as comfortable on the floor.

"Just like old times," she says after a long silence.

He looks up at her, his face haughty, and says nothing.

"Fine," she says, "You don't wanna talk, we don't have to talk. I just thought after you've been locked down here for so long…" she trails off, and his expression doesn't change. She had thought that the change for him might be something exciting – an anomaly in an endless sentence of monotony and isolation. But no, it appears he'd rather be left to rot in silence, which is absolutely fine by her, it just means that it will probably be the most boring babysitting job she has ever had to do.

After a while, Loki stands. Natasha follows him with her eyes, making a note of everything he glances at, every muscle he moves, but all he does is walk around the perimeter of his cell five times, before heading back to the same spot and sitting down again, his legs crossed at the ankles. He fiddles with the hem of his loose fitting shirt for a while, but that doesn't appear to entertain him for long, because after a few minutes he huffs, bringing his knees up to his chest and resting his arms on top of them.

"You were a murderer," he says eventually. "You _are_ a murderer, I should say."

Natasha doesn't respond, though she will admit some curiosity as to where he's going with his blunt, provocative line of questioning.

"Yet, here you are, entrusted with the secrets and weapons of Midgard. My brother chooses you, of all people, to take the watch this evening. How did you manage that? Who did you kill to get that job?"

"Why don't you tell me why you think Thor chose me? And then I'll tell you how I managed to convince the people that mattered that I was changed for the better."

Loki's eyes flash at her choice of words, the ambiguity of her statement, which she knows will lure him in. He must know the answer already, will have cleaved all of her secrets from Clint's brain when he was controlling him. She will indulge him, for now.

"My brother…" Loki says slowly, turning his head and resting it on top of his hands while he looks at her. "He will have judged you on our conversation from your ship. The one where you were so very smug, just before Banner unleashed his full ferocity on your men. Thor will have considered that a triumph on your part."

"And you don't?"

"I didn't consider it to be my loss - that part of my plan went as it should have. Ergo, you did not win that round, Agent Romanov."

Natasha smirks, running a hand along the calf of her jeans smoothing out some of the creases. She knows how desperate he is to get a reaction from her, is well aware of how low he will stoop in order to break her cool demeanour. She is, however, prepared for that. She knows she has to be even more patient than usual today, because he is acting out of boredom, more than anything else. And really, she can't find it within herself to blame him.

"How is Agent Barton?" he asks after a short while. "Still having nightmares?"

"You know," Natasha says, "I think that could count as _breathing the wrong way_. Watch your mouth, if you want food sent down."

"You think I'd eat anything they send me? You think I'd let them bargain with me?" For the first time he appears agitated, his hands twitchy as he picks at the hem of his shirt. "_Be a good boy, Loki, and we'll send you whatever the dogs don't eat._ No thank you. I'd rather starve."

From the way he's looking at her, Natasha supposes that he's expecting her to laugh, expecting for her to turn around and tell him he deserves it. But she doesn't. Yeah, he's an ass, and he's done some terrible things, but so has she. She knows all too well what it's like, when food becomes a bargaining chip, when pride and stubbornness try to muffle out the dry, aching, painful hunger, and inevitably fail.

"I had to make some difficult choices," she says, breaking the silence. He blinks, then sits up a little straighter, watching her closely. "You know, you do all these things for other people, and it's great when it's all going to plan, but as soon as it doesn't, you realise you're the fall guy. You realise how disposable you are to them. And when you need them, and their influence, or their money or their resources or even just _their_ _word_, they vanish, and you're on your own."

Loki says nothing, resting his chin on his knees and staring into space.

"Any cause can sound just, if it's worded the right way," she continues. She can feel her mind reaching out for words that won't jar him too much. She doesn't want to sound sanctimonious, because there's no way she could stand here and lecture him on right and wrong and he knows that. They both know that. "And I know with the others, they're fighting for someone, which gives them a reason beyond themselves, and I know that that's not gonna be reason enough for you. It certainly wasn't enough for me."

"Fighting for Agent Barton isn't enough for you?" There's less malice when he refers to Clint this time around, the curiosity overpowering the distaste.

Natasha shakes her head. "I'm not naturally inclined to…attachment. But he's a good friend."

Loki rolls his eyes in disinterest and resumes his staring at the far side of his cage.

"If I'm ever in doubt as to what I should be doing, whether it's right or wrong or whatever shade of grey lies in between, I just think, if I were a kid again, which version of the world would I wanna grow up in? The version where choice A is made, or choice B?"

"How disgustingly touching," Loki sneers. "_Think of the children. _I thought you were above such tedious sentiments. I have to say I'm disappointed."

"But it's not _the children_," Natasha argues, ignoring the curl of his lip, his narrowed eyes. "It's _you_. It's you before everything got fucked up. If you could go back and do it all again, what would you have preferred before you became a monster and a murderer? It's about finding that clear space, forgetting that one more splash of red won't make much difference to your body count now, because what's one drop in an ocean? One drop on a blank piece of paper though, that's…that's a big deal."

"Instead of being the fool that tries to drain the ocean, perhaps you should try setting sail instead."

Natasha leans back in her chair and considers him for a moment. What irks her with Loki, and what probably irks Thor and his parents too, is that Loki is _not_ an idiot. He's not evil, he's not even _cruel_, not really. It's plain to see when she talks to him, just the two of them, nothing at stake, no real games to be played other than those to ease the boredom. He's just…a little bit fucked up. And aren't they all, when it comes down to it? Aren't all of them, the so called heroes, only fucked up people who were recruited by the right person at the right time? There's not a normal person among them, not one person who doesn't have an extraordinary story. Loki's story though, is no more remarkable than her own, and as a result, he's no more a villain than she ever was. They just differed on their desires for recognition – while she has always enjoyed getting away with things without leaving a trace, no fingerprints, no blood spatters, nothing, Loki has always craved recognition and adulation, of which she has had plenty since New York, while he's been stuck up here, paying for his sins in silence. Funny how the tables turn.

"If you could start over, go back to before things snowballed out of control, and make the _other_ choice, would you? Honestly?"

"Honestly?" he repeats, his eyebrow quirking as though the word is foreign to him.

"Yeah, the opposite of what you usually do."

He almost smirks at that, almost.

"Honestly, it's for me to know and you to not."

Natasha sighs. "What are you, a five year old?"

This time he does smirk, and then he gets up and paces around his cell again, five laps, pale hands clasped behind his back, clothes hanging loosely off of his thin frame.

"You know what I said about convincing the people that matter?"

He halts his pacing and twists to face her, seeming somehow far taller, now he's just on the other side of the glass, looking down at her in her chair. "Yes?"

"Remorse usually helps. Even if you don't feel it. But I bet the chances are that you do. You're not that far gone, not yet."

"Remorse," he says, resuming his pacing and looking up towards the ceiling. "Yes I've heard of that before. Isn't that something that the weak feel? When they lack conviction?"

Natasha smiles and shakes her head. It's almost funny how blasé he is about things, how desperately he tries to cling to this façade of strength and malevolence, and how he is far too proud to take even one scrap of food from the feast, despite the fact that his ribcage is visible through the thin material of his shirt. It's not even a question of him lying to get an improvement in his living standards, it's a question of him telling the truth, for once, to his family, and that's harder for him than an endless eternity of isolation and stubborn starvation.

"Well, I hope you're comfortable in here," she says, stretching her legs out in front of her and then readjusting her position in the chair. "Because it seems to me like you're gonna be in here a while."

"One day at a time," he murmurs, and it's almost as though he's speaking to himself, instead of to her. It sounds like a well-rehearsed mantra, something that he's constantly using to reassure himself. He leans his forehead against the glass and closes his eyes, falling silent, his fingertips tapping softly against the surface.

There is a clatter and Natasha twists in the chair to find the source of the noise. By the ropes attached to the two bells that Thor had shown her earlier is a dumb-waiter type device carved into the wall. Natasha gets up and heads over to it, finding a huge silver tray loaded with delicious looking food – tender meat, roasted vegetables, crusty bread, various cheeses, a large jug of red wine and some odd looking chargrilled delicacies that have an unusual aroma about them. Tucked under one of the platters, is a folded piece of thick, yellow, parchment.

_Try and get him to eat. He might take food from you. _

_Thor. _

Natasha tucks the note into her pocket quietly, hoping that Loki won't notice. If he suspects interference from Thor then he won't eat at all.

"Hungry?" she asks, picking up the tray and carrying it over towards the cell. She balances the tray against her hip and presses her left hand flat against the glass, closing her eyes as the odd, disorienting feeling washes over her.

Loki looks up at her, almost surprised at her willingness to enter his prison, but she's not worried. He's weak, as much as he tries to hide it, and she's fairly sure she could handle herself should the need arise, though she's willing to bet a considerable sum that the need will certainly not arise.

She places the tray on the floor and sits down opposite him, pouring some wine into the two goblets and passing one to him. He takes it reluctantly, his eyes following her every move, and then she sips her wine. Her eyebrows raise high on her forehead at the strength of it. She can already feel the heat of the alcohol washing through her, and wonders if she might be better sticking to the water. Perhaps the wine of the gods is a little beyond her capabilities as a human.

Natasha hands a plate to Loki, and he stares at her for a moment before taking it and putting on the floor beside him.

"Not eating?" she asks.

"I refuse to turn this into a game for them. I'm not a dog."

"What if you eat and they never found out?"

Loki says nothing, and so she takes that as an invitation to elaborate on her plan.

"I'm not even that hungry," she says, "Though I think I'll try a little because it looks tasty as hell. Either way, we can pretend that I pigged out, and you flat out refused to eat. You keep that plate," she points at the one on the floor next to him, "And you use this one instead, so it looks like one person's eaten, and the other person hasn't."

"Why would you even bother?" he asks with a sigh, his eyes flicking down briefly to look at the food then stubbornly returning to look at Natasha.

She treads carefully now, knowing that her motive needs to be believable enough for him to not suspect any influence from Thor. She bites her lip and pauses, which she has often found to be her best feign of insecurity. "Because I know what it's like to be so god damn stubborn that it almost kills you."

"What do you care if I die?"

"It's a blot on a clean sheet of paper," she replies softly. "So come on, I promise I won't say a word." She holds out the second plate and after a few seconds' hesitation, he snatches it from her and begins piling it high with food. He chews the meat steadily, his jaw working hard, as though he's long since forgotten how to eat real food, and when he swallows, it's with a large gulp. He washes it down with wine and, realising she's staring, Natasha takes some bread, breaking off a piece and popping it into her mouth. It's delicious, soft and still a little warm, and she immediately regrets her decision to not eat too much. She takes the spare fork and spears a small piece of particularly juicy looking beef, before lifting it to her mouth. She closes her eyes contentedly as she chews, leaning back slightly, her lips curving into a smile.

"Could you seriously have refused this?" she asks in amazement. "This is…_astonishing_."

"I would have slept," he replies. "It's the easiest way to deal with most things."

Natasha nods, remembering many a day spent curled on her side, staring at the blank wall inches from her face, trying to retain a grip, no matter how fragile, on her dwindling sanity. Eventually, her eyelids would grow heavy and she would be able to slip into unconsciousness, passing perhaps an hour or so until she was next disturbed.

She looks down towards the strange chargrilled things and reaches out to take one, but Loki moves, quick as a flash, his hand gripping her wrist, halting her. Her heart stops in her chest but she doesn't react; despite the shock, she's not sure she feels threatened. His grip is surprisingly strong, even with his emaciated frame, his hands particularly skeletal.

"The smell won't come off for days," he says, wrinkling his nose. "And they taste like vomit."

Natasha pulls her hand back gently and he lets go of her, his attention falling back to his own food.

"Right. Thanks. What are they?"

"Awful," he says between mouthfuls of vegetables. "Just awful."

Natasha skews her lips and cuts off some cheese instead, the tanginess causing her jaw to clench pleasantly. They continue to eat in silence, Natasha picking at bits here and there, Loki continuing eat as fast as he can. Every so often, his eyes flick towards the door, as though expecting someone to burst in, catching him red handed in the most sinful act of eating. Eventually, he reclines against the wall, putting his empty plate on the tray and taking one last sip of wine before placing his goblet on the tray too.

When he doesn't move for a good ten minutes, while Natasha picks out all the crispy bits of meat at the edge of the plate, she realises that he's fallen asleep, and decides that it's probably time for her to leave him be. She gets to her feet quietly, her balance a little off kilter from the wine, and picks up the tray, before stepping softly to the edge of the cell and pressing her hand against the glass. She feels stomach acid rise in her throat as everything shifts, but as soon as the feeling comes, it's gone, and she's back on the side of the free.

She sets the tray back on the dumb-waiter and takes one of the goblets and one of the forks, then heads over to the large marble sink in the corner to wash them. When she's satisfied that they look as good as new, she places them back on the tray with the rest of it, picks up one last piece of bread and heads to her chair, tearing off pieces and chewing them slowly. She sits there quietly, watching Loki closely, trying to decide whether he really is asleep, or whether he's just grown tired of her. After a short while, she comes to the conclusion that he's definitely sleeping, and decides that the impromptu feast after such a long period of self-inflicted starvation must have worn him out.

He doesn't stir for the next hour, and soon he starts to slide slowly down the wall, until he's lying down, head resting on his forearm, hair tangled beneath him. His chest rises and falls steadily, the indentations of the spaces between his ribs still uncomfortably noticeable. Natasha traces the carved patterns on the arm of her chair with her index finger, growing more and more tired as the silence presses in on her. In the dark depths of the dungeons, it's easy for her to lose track of time, but just as she's wondering whether she ought to settle down for the night and make herself comfortable, she hears the heavy clink of the chains from the other side of the door. After a moment, the door creaks open, and Thor enters, a little more colour in his cheeks than earlier on in the evening, though his expression is serious. He steps carefully, trying to keep quiet, and glances over to Loki as soon as he rounds the corner.

"Thank you," he whispers when he reaches Natasha. "I'll take over from here."

"You sure? I don't mind if you wanna go back to the party…"

"No, it's late now, I'll take you back to the Bifrost and send you home. Did he eat?"

Natasha shakes her head. "No, he's stubborn as shit and far too proud. I ate tons though, _delicious_." She gestures to the dumb-waiter and Thor turns to look, then approaches the tray.

"You didn't care for the Lostocks?" he asks, picking up one of the chargrilled oddities and turning it in front of him. "Loki detests them, always has. He had some when he was a boy and spent the whole night vomiting. He tells me they smell but -" Thor lifts the Lostock to his nose and inhales, smiles, and then pops it into his mouth, chews, and swallows. "I can't smell anything untoward."

Natasha smiles. "I trusted his judgement one that one – especially as the wine was a little too hardcore for a mere mortal like me, thought I'd give them a miss."

Thor nods. "And he didn't eat anything at all?"

Natasha shakes her head.

Thor sighs heavily, running a hand through his thick blond hair. "I worry for him. He's not the man he was when he attacked your city but…"

"He still did, I know," Natasha finishes for him. Thor nods, a tired expression on his face. His usually twinkling eyes have lost their merriment, his mouth set in a grim line.

"I don't know what to do," Thor continues. "He's still my brother and yet I know that we can't let him out because he can't be trusted."

"Well," Natasha says, standing and stretching. "I wouldn't lose hope. We all make shitty decisions, some just have more drastic consequences than others…and granted invading an entire planet is pretty drastic, but you know, things snowball, don't they? Doesn't mean he's lost forever."

"You sound like I did in the beginning," Thor says sadly. "But he's so determined to punish all of us by ruining himself…But come, I'll take you back to the Bifrost."

"What about -" she jabs her thumb over shoulder and Thor shakes his head.

"He'll be fine on his own. It's only a little while." He gestures towards the door and Natasha glances over her shoulder to where Loki lays. Just as she's about to turn back towards the door, she sees his eyelids open a fraction, revealing a narrow slit of green iris and dark pupil. Her lips twitch into a small smile before she heads for the door, Thor following behind her, closing the door and securing the chains. They climb the stone steps in silence, and they traipse down several corridors, passing a number of tipsy revellers, leaning heavily against stone columns, clutching goblets of wine, laughing and joking amongst themselves.

"Did he eat?"

"Loads."

Thor sighs in relief, placing a shaky hand against his forehead. "He's been getting so thin. _Nothing_ we say makes him eat, not even if we give him the _good food_. I thought you might be able to convince him. You seem to…" Thor pauses, apparently struggling to find the right word. "Empathise with him in a way that he doesn't find offensive."

"I won't lie," Natasha says, pushing her shoulder against one of the heavy wooden doors until it swings open, revealing yet another corridor. "I've been there, and he knows that. He knows me better than I'd prefer but…"

"But you don't hate him, not like the others do."

"Well," Natasha says, "I've been there. There are people that hate me, good people with good reason who'd be happy to see me strung up by the neck. But that's life, isn't it?"

"Yes…it is," Thor says, though she's not quite sure he really understands what she's saying. He is the beloved Prince of Asgard after all, loved by everyone bar Loki, and she's not even sure Loki _truly_ hates him. It doesn't make Thor naïve, just exceptionally fortunate, and perhaps a little sheltered.

They finally reach the great golden dome and Natasha climbs the steps of the dais, standing in the rough spot where she landed in a heap earlier on in the day. She waits for Thor to work whatever magic he has to in order to send her back to her own planet, but he pauses, sword in hand, next to the centre of the dais.

"Something wrong?" she asks.

"How would you feel about coming back? If I spoke with Director Fury and requested your assistance on a more regular basis. Perhaps if I offer up my services to him in exchange for yours? Do you think he'd agree? Would you _want him_ to agree?"

Natasha shrugs. "If the food's that good then I'm in," she says. "If he needed me for a mission or if we had another crisis then obviously I wouldn't be able to babysit, but -"

"Of course, of course," Thor says, nodding emphatically. "But maybe once or twice a week? He doesn't eat if it's anybody else. I don't want him to starve." Thor's voice cracks at his last words and Natasha feels something stir in her chest that might be some vague feeling of sympathy, but the notion is so foreign to her that she just swallows it down and ignores it.

"I'll speak with Fury tomorrow. He's not gonna be sympathetic to the reason, but maybe if I…omit that particular detail."

Thor looks up at her, his eyes bright and hopeful. "You'd do that? I don't wish to cause trouble for you."

"I'll think of something. He'll probably ask me to check out some of your technology but…" she shrugs. "It's not what he thinks up here. It's certainly not what _I_ thought. But again, he doesn't need to know that."

"Do not lie to the Director on my account," Thor says seriously. "Do not jeopardise your standing."

"It's not lying if it's him making an assumption," Natasha argues. "But I'll talk to him and gauge it, he might be glad to get rid of me for a while."

"I can't imagine that," Thor replies, so quickly that Natasha can't help but smile.

"I get a little…antsy when I don't have much to do."

Thor smiles and nods, and this, Natasha knows he can understand.

"You'll have to return anyway," Thor says, far more casually now. "Your reward isn't ready yet, but you'll have to collect it when it is."

"Oh?" Natasha says curiously. "Not ready how?"

"It needs a little tweaking from my mother," he replies, and by the smirk on his face, Natasha can tell that it's all he's going to say on the matter.

"Right…well, I'll let you get back to Loki and…yeah." She raises a hand in farewell and Thor nods, before raising the sword.

The next thing she knows, she is falling and twisting and flailing and then she is face down in her bed, her body sore, her head spinning. She rolls over, pressing her palms to her face, her lungs heaving as she tries to catch her breath. She'd best get used to it, she supposes, if she's going to be making it a regular thing.

She chews her lip and wonders why she exactly she's agreed to be a babysitter for a man who tried to enslave the entire planet, and the only sane reason she can come up with is that if she can help turn him around, the same way that Clint turned her around, then maybe a little of that ocean of red in her ledger will be wiped out.

The only problem is, she's not sure that that reason is top of her list.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Here we are, chapter two. I hope you enjoy. Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter. Let me know what you think of this one!

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**Turn**

**by Flaignhan**

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She feels like she's been sent to see the Headmaster. Fury wanders around his office, placing various files back in their rightful spots on the shelves, while she sits in front of his desk, hands in her lap, waiting patiently for him to sit down.

"So what was it like? Enlighten the rest of us _un_privileged mortals."

She smirks at his tone and, relaxing just a little, stretches her legs out before her. "It was...pretty impressive. Good food, _excellent_ food, actually."

"That it? A few tasty treats?"

Natasha shrugs. "Everything's huge there, it's kinda like Texas but...classy."

Fury's lips twist into a rueful smile. "Well, you didn't miss much," he tells her, sitting himself down in his chair and leaning one elbow against the desk. "All quiet here. Just like last winter..."

"And the one before," she adds, remembering days upon days of staring out of her window onto slushy streets, the people far below wrapped up in layers upon layers of clothing to protect them from the biting wind. Above all, she remembers the boredom. Apparently nobody likes planning crazy shit in the winter, and she's glad. She hates the cold. Too many memories.

"Yeah," Fury sighs. "Still, I'm sure we can occupy ourselves somehow. Maybe get Stark in to do some more R&D. But get Banner to keep an eye on him this time."

"Actually," Natasha says slowly, seizing her opportunity before it flits by. "Thor was wondering whether I could go back. You know, make it a more regular thing."

"What, babysitting his crazy little brother you mean?" Fury's eyebrows contort into a deep, judgemental frown.

"Well, yeah," Natasha responds lamely. "Apparently I did a good job."

"Did the asshole have anything to say for himself?" he asks, sitting up straighter and interlacing his fingers.

"Not a lot," she replies with a shrug. "He's been locked in the dungeons since the summer."

Fury nods. "As he damn well should be...Gone crazy yet?"

Natasha shakes her head. "Sane, actually," she says, frowning. "Weirdly sane. Not like he was in New York. He was...damaged in New York. He's actually kinda docile now."

"Docile?" Fury raises an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Yeah..." Natasha sighs. "It's a little weird. You'd think he'd have completely lost it but..."

"So why does Thor want you to go back? Why can't his own men guard Loki?"

Natasha hesitates, only for a moment. "He's better behaved when I'm around," she says. And then, for good measure, she adds, "Thor thinks Loki's scared of me, after the helicarrier."

Fury smirks, and Natasha knows instantly that her trips to Asgard have pretty much been signed off already. She decides to sweeten the deal, just to be sure.

"Thor knows it's a big ask," she says, leaning forward just a little, holding eye contact (or as much as it's possible to hold eye contact with Fury). "So he's offered up his services, should you need them."

"How very generous of him, taking my best agent and replacing her with a guy with a hammer..."

Natasha smirks. "He has his uses," she says quietly. "And it can't hurt to have a god on call."

Fury nods, his fingers steepled as he considers her. "Yeah," he says at last. "You can go and play babysitter for the prodigal son, if that's what you want."

"Well," Natasha says with a casual shrug. "I'm not gonna pretend I don't enjoy seeing him locked up."

Fury smirks, and Natasha knows that they're done. After a little more small talk, some eye-rolling over Tony's latest 'experiment' in R&D that left three people blinded for an hour and a half, and a shade of serious talk regarding the powers that be, she gets up and leaves the office, closing the door quietly behind her.

* * *

When she arrives, he looks almost happy. Thor doesn't bother to enter, and the two guards in the room share a sidelong glance of scepticism.

"You're the mortal?" one asks.

"Yes," Natasha replies stiffly.

"They never told me it was a woman," the other says, not even trying to keep his laughter at bay. "A mortal woman?" he chuckles loudly. "Whatever next? Will they send an infant to guard him? A dog? The latter might be more capable."

The two guards guffaw and Natasha feels her skin prickle. She knows that reacting is a bad idea, knows that these Asgardians make up for what they lack in brains with brute strength. She considers reminding them that she was hand picked for the task by Thor, but before she can utter a word, Loki speaks.

"They don't call her the Black Widow for nothing, Frejir," he says, his eyes on the one who is laughing the hardest. His voice is soft, but perfectly audible in the large dungeon. "She will be more adequate than the two of you combined."

"Oh I see," Frejir says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "I had no idea that the Prince allowed prisoners to be entertained in such ways. Forgive me. I'm sure she'll keep you most occupied. Perhaps Meinholf and I could get a taste of Midgard too, before she is sent back down."

Natasha's fists are clenched tight, her nails digging into the flesh of her palms, but she daren't lash out. She has always known which battles to pick, and as much as her heart is egging her on to destroy the arrogant shithead, she knows she'll come off worst, and will not only have to deal with the physical consequences of that, but the humiliation, too.

"You know, I'm sure the Lady Sif will be thrilled to hear you talking of women as though they are only fit to be whores. I seem to remember you spending a long time in the healing room crying over a few scratches she gave you."

Frejir stops laughing, but his companion, Meinholf, continues snickering away.

"And I seem to remember she saved your life, Meinholf, despite your cruel words and taunts. Have neither of you learned not to underestimate women? Perhaps that is why you both remain unmarried. Either that or the disgusting odour that follows you around. I can even smell it in_ here_."

Frejir takes an angry step towards the glass, but from outside of the dungeon, a cheerful voice calls in. "What's the delay? Frejir, Meinholf, there is ale waiting upstairs!"

Frejir halts, his jaw clenched, and then turns on his heel, heading towards the door. He tries to brush roughly past Natasha in what she is sure is a not so accidental manner, though she sees it coming a mile off, and is able to brace herself, her feet anchored to the floor. When his heavy shoulder plate collides with her, she barely moves an inch, stopping him in his tracks. He towers over her, glaring down, but she meets his gaze with mild disinterest, not blinking once. She can do this all day, if necessary, and she's sure that Loki won't mind; she can feel his eyes on her, can feel his anticipation at the potential chaos of the situation.

"I believe the words you're looking for are 'excuse me'," Natasha says coolly. "But for a supposedly superior race, you're acting an awful lot like cavemen, so maybe an 'excuse me' is a little too much for me to expect."

Loki sniggers, his eyes glinting with malice. Frejir turns towards the glass once more and starts towards him, but before he can make any idle threats, Thor's voice sounds again.

"Frejir? Meinholf?"

"Coming!" Meinholf says quickly, grabbing Frejir by the shoulder and hauling him towards the door. Frejir throws one last disgusted look over his shoulder, which Natasha raises an eyebrow at, and soon the door of the dungeon swings shut, the jarring sound of the heavy iron bolts sliding across following soon after. There is a distant rattling as the chains are secured, and then Natasha hears three sets of footsteps climb the stairs, and fade into the upper floor.

"You could have taken both of them," Loki says, breaking the silence. "Easily."

Natasha's stern expression drops, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile, and she turns to face him. There's a small grin playing at his lips, as though the last five minutes has been the most entertainment he's had throughout his entire sentence.

"I doubt it. I _am_ human, remember."

"Don't judge us all by Thor," Loki replies darkly. "He's extraordinarily strong. The rest of us tend to favour other skills."

"Such as?" Natasha asks, folding her arms and waiting for an answer.

"Well, I favour my mind and my magic. Someone like Frejir...he has aggression, I suppose. And some measure of strength. Nothing you'd be unable to handle though."

"I think you're overestimating my strength, really."

"Do you not listen? It's not about strength. If it were about strength then Agent Barton would have squeezed the life out of you on board your ship. As it was, you went head to head with a physically stronger person and _won_. More than that, you limited yourself, you won without killing him. That was quite impressive."

Natasha doesn't know what to say. It sounds like a compliment, but she can't help but assume he's merely trying to goad her into combat with two opponents whom she has no chance of beating, purely for his own amusement. She's not mad about it, she almost finds it funny herself, the lengths he'll go to in order to ease his boredom, even if it means complimenting her, and talking her up in front of others.

"Have you eaten since I was here last?" she asks. The smirk vanishes from his face, and in the harsh, clinical lighing, the dark circles under his eyes seem more pronounced than ever.

"No," he says, not meeting her eye, his tone careful and delicate as he struggles to appear indifferent to his hunger.

"Thor's promised me a ton of food later, so don't worry."

"I wasn't _worrying_," he says sulkily, running a hand through his scraggy hair. His fingers catch on a knot and Natasha looks down at the ground, giving him a moment to fix it.

"Okay," she says with a shrug, her eyes still fixed on her feet. She eases off her jacket and places it over the arm of the high backed wooden chair that hasn't moved since her last visit. She moves forward to the glass and places her hands against it, closing her eyes as the room moves, or she moves, she's not quite worked out which one it is yet. Loki stares at her as she walks over to him and sits down on the floor next to him, her back against the wall, her elbow only a few inches away from his.

"I brought you something," she says at last, reaching into the pocket of her jeans, her fingers closing around the small, rectangular packet.

"An escape route?" he asks, one eyebrow raised. His bored tone doesn't suggest that he holds much optimism for her gift, but Natasha ignores it, and his comment. She pulls the deck of cards out and tosses it to him, his large, spidery hand catching it deftly. He frowns, and sits up straight, opening the pack and emptying out the cards.

"Might pass the hours a little easier," Natasha says. "Figured they'd be easy to hide as well."

"I've seen these before…on your world. People gamble with them, don't they?"

Natasha nods. "They do, but you don't have to gamble. You can just play for fun."

"But where's the fun if there are no stakes?" he asks, turning to face her.

"If you don't want them," Natasha begins, reaching across to take them, but Loki pulls them away, his long arm holding them far out of her reach.

"I didn't say that," he says quickly.

Natasha smirks and leans back against the wall, pulling her knees up to her chest. "You know this is usually the part where you say _thank you_."

"_Thank you_," he says, the words laced with sarcasm. He turns the deck over in his hands absentmindedly, chewing the inside of his lower lip. Natasha sits there in silence, wondering what it must be like to spend all day, every day, in this cell. At least with hers she had walls, proper ones, and was less like an animal in a zoo. Here, Loki is fully exposed, vulnerable, but maybe, the small glimpses he gets into the world beyond his cage help to keep him sane.

Her fingers start to pick at her sleeve, and she realises that her heart is beating a little faster than normal. Last time it had just been dinner, and then she'd left him, but this time, for whatever fucked up reason she can't even think of, she's decided to partake in his sentence with him. It reminds her a little too much of days she's long since locked away and tried to forget about. Were it not for the fact that she can feel Loki's presence next to her, the existence of another living being, with air in his lungs and blood in his veins, she's sure she would be clawing her way out of here. She knows full well that she can leave whenever she likes, but perhaps it is the silence that gets to her. The silence and the lights and the heavy feeling of hopelessness that seems to exist solely within these glass walls, and nowhere else in Asgard.

"You can do tricks with them as well," Natasha says. "Like, I dunno, you get people to pick a card, stuff happens, you show them the card they picked, they lose their mind like it's the greatest thing in the universe…"

His scowl doesn't suggest that he's up for any magic tricks any time soon, and so Natasha falls silent again, resting her chin on her knees and staring out across the cage.

"What games are there?" he asks after a short while.

"Gin," Natasha says. "Poker. There are hundreds."

"Show me," he demands. When Natasha doesn't respond, he swallows and then quietly tags on a strained "_Please_."

Natasha pushes herself away from the wall and takes the cards from him. She turns them over and fans them out in her hand, a sea of red and black before her.

"You have four suits," she says, "Spades, diamonds, hearts and clubs." She shows him each one in turn, and then pushes the deck back together. "You have ace through to king in each suit, but the ace can either be a one or it can beat the king."

"Logical…" he sighs.

Natasha smirks and then continues, explaining the most basic rules of gin before giving the deck a thorough shuffle, dealing out seven cards each and setting the remainder on the floor between them. She picks up her hand, and Loki mirrors her action, arranging his cards neatly in his large hand while Natasha shuffles hers about, trying to get a half decent strategy together. She has a couple of threes, as well as the five and seven of clubs. She glances up at Loki, holding his cards close to his chest, and can't help but smile as he glares down at them.

"Your turn," she says. "I dealt, so you go first."

Loki turns over a card from the top of the deck, frowns at it, then inserts it into his hand. After a few seconds of consideration, he takes another card from his hand and drops it on the floor between them. It's the three of diamonds, and so Natasha looks at it for a moment, then without a word, or even the slightest muscle twitch, she picks it up and places it in her own hand, Loki's eyes following her every movement.

The game doesn't last long, and when Natasha lays down her hand, declaring herself the winner, Loki insists upon searching through the deck for the card he'd been waiting for. The jack of clubs, as it turns out, is only three away from the top of the deck, so it is with a sour expression that he watches Natasha shuffle the cards, and deal out a new game.

After half a dozen rounds, Loki has his first victory, in part due to the abysmal hand Natasha began with, but possibly related to the fact that her patience for gin is wearing thin, and so some very accidentally stupid decisions see her lose to Loki. The victory works wonders for his mood, because he takes up the cards, shuffles them with a smile on his face, and is about to deal them a new hand each when the dumb waiter by the door clatters into life.

Natasha gets up and leaves the cell, her eyes taking a little while to adjust to the darkness outside of it, before she heads over to see what treats lay in store today. There are no lostocks on the tray, but there is plenty of delicious food, more than enough for two. She carries it over to the cell, passes through the glass, and Loki clears the cards away, ready to eat. He doesn't even question it when Natasha hands him a plate, and even goes so far as to pour her a goblet of wine. She knows better than to comment however, and this newfound sense of civility in him is something she'd like for him to stick with. She wonders if perhaps old habits really do die hard, and a happy Loki, a victorious Loki, is able to forget about all of the things that drove him down the path of destruction, and instead become his old self, before things fucked up.

She wonders if this answers her question from her previous visit. If he could go back and change it, would he?

"Did Thor believe you when you told him I hadn't eaten?" Loki asks, loading his plate with vegetables.

"Yes," Natasha says, almost indignantly. "Of course."

Loki smirks at her tone, then takes a sip of his wine. "Good," he says. "And I trust you'll tell him the same again when he returns?"

"You know he's _worried_," Natasha says, buttering some bread, her stomach growling hungrily. "He _wants_ you to eat because he hates to see you starve. You _need_ to be punished for what you did, but he doesn't want you to suffer unnecessarily. He still loves you."

"I _trust_," Loki says pointedly, setting down his fork and putting his plate to the side, "That you'll tell him the same again."

"If that's what you want," Natasha says with a shrug. "But you're making an enemy out of somebody who loves you, and that's not what you need."

"Promise me," Loki says, not touching his plate.

"You think my promise is worth anything?" Natasha replies with a smirk. "My my, you really are naïve."

Her words do the trick, because Loki picks up his plate and resumes eating once more, silence falling between them but for the clinking of cutlery and the soft sound of chewing. She knows him well enough to be sure of the fact that had she promised him, he would never have trusted her again. In her world, promises are only ever made to gain the trust of the innocent, and then break them, usually along with a few bones and half a dozen laws.

They continue to eat in silence until nearly all the food is gone. When Loki places his plate back on the tray, takes his final sip of wine from his goblet, and then reclines against the wall in defeat, Natasha knows that it's time to wash up and cover their tracks. She smiles to herself as she stands over the marble sink, cleaning away all traces of food and wine. It's silly, how much effort she goes to so that Loki doesn't realise that Thor knows that he's been eating. Thor knows as well that she's brought a deck of cards, even encouraged her to bring more _strange Midgardian past-times_, because the novelty would keep Loki's mind busy, if only for a little while. It's the biggest case of crossed lines in the history of the universe, and yet she knows she must walk those lines like a tightrope, lest it all come crashing down around her.

With the tray safely back on the dumb-waiter, Natasha returns to the cell and sits beside Loki. Through his shirt she can see that his muscles have shrunken, are stringy looking, and far from healthy. Even on death row, they're allowed outside. With lack of exercise combined with lack of food, he is genuinely wasting away. It's painfully obvious from the way his stomach has visibly bulged after eating one meal, how tired he now is, with his eyes closed, head leant back against the wall, his collar bone jutting awkwardly out from the hollow between his neck and shoulders.

"You haven't walked around your cell yet," she says quietly, not wanting to startle him.

Without a word, he gets to his feet, then starts pacing around the perimeter of his cell, completing five laps before he falls back down next to Natasha, his hair tickling her shoulder. He exhales softly, but she can tell that the simple act of walking has tired him out, even from the way he sits now, with his legs slack and slightly haphazard in their arrangement.

"Do you get to go outside? Ever?"

Loki cracks open an eyelid and gives her the briefest, cutting glare, before closing his eyes again.

"If I could get you some time outside, to walk around, stretch your legs, breathe some decent air, would I regret it?"

"They won't let me have that," Loki says, not even bothering to look at her.

Natasha sits forward. "But if I could, hypothetically. Would you be difficult?"

"Difficult how?" he asks, opening his eyes again. He doesn't adjust his seating position, his curiosity still not quite enough to overpower the apathy that has seized him since his sentencing.

"You know, as in, trying to escape. Not that I'd blame you, I just think it'd be a bad idea."

"Why?"

"Because last time you decided to go AWOL from Asgard you ended up…well, here, in the end."

"I had fun," Loki retorts. "You're forgetting that bit."

"Did you? Really?"

Loki doesn't reply. She knows more about his misadventures than he realises, was able to read more from his face on the helicarrier than she could in an entire SHIELD report on him. He was a damaged man over a barrel, and she knows what it's like, and knows how it feels, when you have to convince yourself you're a hero just to get through the task at hand.

"If I get you some walkabout time, and you misbehave, I'm not gonna come here ever again. They won't _let me_. So you can go back to your little game of not eating any food, and being stuck here forever, or you can play ball. I don't gain anything from getting you outside for a while, I'm only asking because you look like shit."

"They won't agree to it," Loki says. "I don't know why you're even entertaining the idea."

"I think you underestimate my powers of persuasion."

"You make it happen, which it won't, and I'll promise to behave myself," he says at last. He doesn't look at her, and she wonders if it's perhaps because he doesn't want to involve himself in the conversation any more than he already has. The tantalising hint of the outside world might just be enough to tip him over the edge, when he's been coping so well with his glass walls.

It's not long before he falls asleep, the upheaval of a feast and a few games of cards clearly too much for him. She hopes, with a stretch of his legs and some daylight, that his post-dinner conversation skills will be up to more in the future, and that perhaps, his return to a reasonable state of health will follow as well.

* * *

"Did he eat?"

The first words out of Thor's mouth once they reach the upper floors come as no surprise to Natasha.

"Yeah," she says. "But he's really weak."

"I know," Thor sighs. "But he refuses to eat when I take him food. Not even my mother can convince him. She has stopped visiting him because she cannot bear to see him so frail."

"He needs more than food," Natasha tells him. "Walking around his cell five times does _not_ constitute exercise. He needs to get outside. He needs _daylight_."

"He's a prisoner," Thor says stiffly.

"Yeah, and on Earth, even our most evil prisoners get to go outside for an hour a day. If you want him to rot away in that cell then me getting him to eat is just prolonging the inevitable. If you want him to get better, if you want any chance of having your brother back, then you have to start treating him like a human being."

"He'll try to escape," Thor says, pushing open a heavy door and standing aside to let Natasha pass. "I know he will."

"And go where, exactly? Back to Thanos for another round of torture? He has _nowhere_. And he knows that too."

Thor sighs heavily and clenches his fist. She knows how much the situation is stressing him out, that he is torn between what's good for his people and what's good for his brother. What she finds frustrating, however, is that Thor isn't nearly as pigheaded as Loki would have everyone believe, and Loki isn't nearly as evil or untrustworthy or damaged, or whatever it is that has resulted in Thor leaving him in the lowest depths of the palace, where sunlight will never reach him. They both have the measure of each other completely wrong, and if she doesn't step in, she knows they'll still be going like this in a thousand years' time. It's ridiculous, and even after only two visits, she's finding it hard to retain her patience.

"I will speak with my father," Thor concedes at last. "I don't hold out much hope, but perhaps, if I accompany the two of you..."

Natasha inwardly grimaces. If Thor's there, she's quite sure Loki will flat out refuse to leave his cell. She'll have to play that one by ear, but perhaps it'll be a good opportunity to force the pair of them to grow up, just a little.

"He's weaker than you realise," Natasha adds quietly. "He's too proud to let you see just how far he's fallen."

Thor nods, his expression sombre, but after a moment, he breaks into a smile. "Enough of this," he says cheerfully. "Your reward is waiting for you!"

"Oh," Natasha says softly, mildly surprised. She'd quite forgotten about her reward, having been rather contented with the good food and the curiosity that is Loki and his warped mind. She wonders what her reward is. Surely not money - that'd be of no use to her on Earth. Perhaps something distinctly Asgardian that will sit on her desk and attract a great deal of questions.

Thor leads her down a corridor which she's never been down before, and as they walk Natasha notices more and more guards, standing sentry outside doors and at regular intervals along the hallway. It gets to the point where the doors are being opened for them well in advance, and it sems as though Natasha is the only person in Asgard who _doesn't_ know where they're going.

At last, the corridors come to an end, and they're in a large, luxurious room, with intricately carved furniture dotted around it. Mjolnir sits on the floor, near the hearth, inside which a large fire crackles merrily. There is a door at the far end of the room, and Thor catches Natasha's gaze lingering on it, wondering what lays beyond.

"My sleeping quarters," Thor says, waving vaguely towards the door. "But please, take a seat."

Natasha drops into a chair by the fireplace, her fingertips tracing the carvings on the arm of the chair. Thor disappears into the corner and Natasha twists in her seat to see him standing in front of his desk, where he opens one of the drawers quietly, takes out a small, gilded box, then heads back towards Natasha.

"Here," he says, holding out the box. "You've earned it."

Natasha takes the box and flips open the lif. Inside is a delicately twisted piece of silver, with what Natasha assumes to be emeralds, or the Asgardian equivalent, inset along the length of it.

"It's beautiful," Natasha says quietly. "But...what is it?" It's probably not the most polite thing she could have said, but it doesn't matter, for Thor chuckles heartily at her words.

"I knew you'd ask," he says with a smile. "It's enchanted; my mother's work. In its current state, it is a decoration for your hair."

With this knowledge, Natasha picks up the silver and turns it over in her hands. She supposes that it could be wrapped around a bun to secure it, and so she rakes her hair back with her fingers, twists it into a knot, and starts to fiddle with the metal. Before she can do too much however, it has snaked its way through her hair, catching all the loose ends and holding them fast, though not tight. She lowers her hands cautiously, half expecting it to fall, but it doesn't. For something that felt rather substantial in her hands, it weighs surprisingly little on her head, and she wonders if this is part of Frigga's enchantment.

Thor smiles. "It seems my mother has excelled herself. It suits you."

"Thanks," Natasha replies, reaching up a hand to gently pat her new accessory. "You said in _this state_ it's a hair decoration..." she adds.

"Yes," he says. "I'm not sure how it works, but my mother tells me that it will aid you when necessary.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "In what way?"

"I do not know," he answers with a sigh. "I never really understood magic. Loki was always much better at it than I was. I was jealous. I used to tease him for it. You can imagine how much I regret that now..." He rubs his face tiredly with one of his large hands, and Natasha sits there quietly, wondering how much more she'll learn about Loki's childhood if she just lets Thor carry on with his melancholic nostalgia. He falls silent, staring into the fire, and somehow, he looks far older than he did in New York. Perhaps it's the longer hair, or maybe it's the slight lighter than blond hairs strewn about his rough, short beard. She wonders how much of a toll Loki's incarceration has taken on Thor. She knows Loki's looking awful, but until the golden fire light threw the lines on Thor's face into sharp relief, she hadn't considered his own suffering.

"I think he'll get better," Natasha says after a while. "But I think boredom is in danger of making him worse."

Thor nods. "He was excited when I told him you were returning. He tried to hide it, but I know him too well."

"Excited?"

"I imagine for the food," Thor muses, before quickly adding, "But I'm sure for the company as well. He doesn't get on with the guards, so you must be a refreshing change for him."

Natasha smiles. "Yeah, and I guess the gifts don't hurt either. He liked the cards."

"He did?" Thor breaks into a smile. "Did he agree to play any of the games?"

Natasha nods.

"Really?" Thor chuckles, leaning forward in his seat. "How did you get him to agree?"

"Thor, he's _bored_, he took no convincing."

"Oh," Thor says lamely, sitting back once more.

"Did you not realise? He's been sitting there for months in a cage with nothing but his own thoughts, and you didn't consider that he might be _bored_?"

"He doesn't _speak to me_," Thor says emphatically. "How am I supposed to know anything when he won't talk?"

Natasha rolls her eyes, earning herself a scowl from Thor. She doesn't know how the two of them managed for the thousands of years leading up to Loki's misadventures, but what she doesn't know is that she doesn't envy Frigga, not one little bit. She knows what it is to be the only apparently sane person in the midst of a mess of testosterone and miscommunication, and the thought of dealing with that for thousands of years is enough to make her stomach turn.

"It's late," Thor says at last. "Come. I'll return you to your home."

And with that, he stands, gesturing towards the door. Not even ten minutes later, Natasha lands face down in her bed, but no matter how tired she feels, her mind is racing, she cannot sleep, and deep down, she knows why.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Another chapter for you. This fic is slowly extending itself in my head, much like Golden did, to my complete and utter terror. But you don't need to worry about that. Hope you like this one. Let me know what you think!

* * *

**Turn**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

She's getting sick of the snow. She longs for the days when she could feel the heat of the sun on her skin as she strolled through the city, the chill of the shadows of the skyscrapers, and even the humidity that would leave her sweating ten times more after a workout. She's not particularly vulnerable to the cold – she's the hardiest of all of them, actually, when it comes to outerwear, favouring a light jacket, a scarf, and a pair of fingerless gloves on particularly cold days. Clint bundles himself up in a huge insulating jacket that makes him look like the Michelin man, Tony refuses to go anywhere on foot, and Bruce has a thick woollen pea coat, which he often accompanies with a chunky scarf that he wraps round his neck several times. Because she's the Russian, they expect her to be in her element, but really, she just wants Christmas to come and go, and spring to slowly creep into existence.

The lights of the festive window displays glare at her from behind their glass, luminous signs flashing offensively without mercy. There are glowing plastic figures with empty smiles painted on their round faces, ribbons and tinsel and fake snow covering every surface. She rolls her eyes at it all, the towering stacks of presents, the blatant emotional blackmail on advertising campaign posters, but then, just as she's about to hail a cab to cut short her journey, she spies something a little more appealing. Her feet seem to make the decision for her, because suddenly, she's walking away from the curb, her hand reaching out to push open the door of the department store. The warm blast of air that hits her from overhead upon entering is more than welcome, and she feels as though she's been suitably defrosted. The display that caught her eye isn't particularly loud or garish, or even decorative. It casts a lonely figure amongst all the other gift stands, its dark, sleek construction easy to miss amongst the explosion of colour and noise.

She doesn't have a particularly sweet tooth. She will enjoy the occasional pastry, but beyond that, it's never really been her thing. She didn't enjoy many desserts as a child, so perhaps the notion of it being a treat was never instilled in her. What _was_ instilled in her was the concept of fuel, of protein and carbohydrates and nothing wasted. No overindulgence either. That simply would not do.

_However_, the neatly wrapped packages of chocolate, with their thick shiny paper and fine silver lettering, are rather appealing. There is a wide variety of flavours too, from simple mint, or orange, to the slightly more adventurous ginger, or chilli, and then to the rather bizarre lime and sea salt, or caramelised sesame seed. Natasha doesn't know which to choose, and in the end opts for the plain, dark chocolate, imagining that the high cocoa percentage will meet Loki's approval. She's not even sure if they have chocolate on Asgard; she's yet to be sent down anything sweet with the platters of food that get delivered to the dungeon, but she's unsure of whether that's due to the fact that prisoners ought not to have desserts, or if it's because Asgard is in the same mindset of food being fuel, though the extravagant feasts would suggest otherwise.

As she waits in line at the cash desk, she wonders why in hell she's bothering to pick up gifts for a guy who a while back would have quite happily killed her without batting an eyelid. When she can't come up with a decent answer, or at least one that doesn't try and grasp at some well concealed streak of humanity that Loki _surely_ must possess, she gives up, and taps her fingers against the rail impatiently as the line shuffles forward at a snail's pace.

* * *

Thor is anxious. It's quite made quite plain by his twitchy fingers, the regular, deep breaths he keeps taking in order to try and calm himself down. The set of manacles in Thor's right hand jangles at his side as he walks, his heavy footfalls more purposeful than on her previous visits. The muscles in his jaw are tense, his teeth gritted, and she wants to say something to appease him, but the words don't come. Her stomach is churning anyway, so anything she does say will be completely false. She knows the manacles are going to cause an argument, but she doesn't know just how much trouble this whole idea is going to cause her. She's beginning to regret her concern for Loki's well being, and makes a mental note to separate her own experiences from Loki's in the future. They are _not_ one and the same, and giving him the things she wished someone had given her will do no good to anybody.

"Be nice," Natasha says quietly as they descend the steps to the dungeons. "You know how sensitive he is."

"He stabbed me in New York," Thor says flatly. "I have very little _nice_ left."

Natasha cannot argue with that, and so she waits while Thor unlocks the door, sliding the bolts across before pushing it open. The guards inside take one look at Thor's expression, give a courteous nod, and then disappear quickly, almost running up the stairs. Loki looks up, his eyes meeting Natasha's and holding her gaze for a moment, before he looks to Thor, and then down at the manacles in his hands.

"No," he says plainly, then turns his attention to the glass ahead of him. Thor's knuckles ripple under his skin as he tightens his grip on the manacles, and Natasha steps forward to mediate.

"You surely weren't expecting to be allowed to roam wild and free, were you?" she asks.

"I will not be led about like a _dog_," Loki replies, refusing to meet her eye.

"They go around your _wrists_, not your _neck_," Natasha tells him. He doesn't answer, and so she steps into the cell, with the large coat Thor had given her upon her arrival, and holds it out to Loki.

He shakes his head.

"No one will even _see_ the cuffs under this," she says exasperatedly.

"I don't _care_."

"Brother, Natasha tells me that you are unwell. You need air." Thor's tone is patient, and Natasha's body releases a little of the tension it had been hoarding, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly in relief.

"There's air in _here_," Loki says sulkily, his jaw jutting forward as he scowls. Natasha drops to her knees in front of him, and finally, he looks her in the eye. From the folds of the coat, she shows him the rectangular parcel of chocolate, hidden from Thor's view (though he naturally knows of its existence).

"Please," Natasha says. "Just put the damn coat on." She slips the chocolate into the largest pocket of the coat, then stands, holding out a hand to pull Loki to his feet.

"I'd rather stay inside," he says carefully, picking at his shirt.

"What if I wore one, and you wore the other?" Natasha asks, grasping at straws. If Thor's gone to all this effort to get approval from his father, to get special manacles made solely so Loki can go for a walk, and Loki refuses to cooperate now, she's going to feel like an idiot. Her powers of persuasion worked on Thor, but Loki is so much trickier, so much more volatile, and so much more _stubborn_.

"What d'you mean?" Loki asks, his voice soft, as though he might, _might_ just be considering it.

"One around your wrist, and one around mine." She holds her arm aloft and Loki's eyes track it.

"Natasha..."

She turns to face Thor and raises an eyebrow. "What? It's not like he'll be able to go anywhere, is it?"

"You'd be putting yourself at risk, I can't let you -"

"More at risk than I am now?" she asks, gesturing towards Loki. "Seriously, it's what we call a _compromise_ on Earth, I don't know if you have them here but they come in pretty handy sometimes."

Thor sighs, chewing the inside of his cheek. He clearly hadn't anticipated Natasha offering herself up as the proverbial dog walker, but she has no qualms about this. She's seen the intermittent tremble of his legs when he does his laps around his cell; he's in no fit shape to take her on, especially not if Thor is in the vicinity.

"I agree to the compromise," Loki says quietly.

Thor blinks, as though he has misheard, and then looks down at the manacles in his hand. "Really?"

"Yes," Loki says, pushing himself up and steadying himself against the wall. He takes the coat from Natasha and pulls it on. It's far too big for him, despite it having been taken from the wardrobe in his own, uninhabited quarters in the depths of the palace.

"Very well," Thor says stiffly. He hesitates for a moment, and then approaches the glass, stepping through with ease. Natasha holds out her right arm, and Loki holds out his left. Thor snaps the manacles into place quickly, before anybody can change their mind, presumably himself included, then, in the blink of an eye, the glass around them vanishes.

"Ready?" Natasha asks, turning to look at Loki, who, for the first time, looks uncertain. His eyes are a little wider than usual and he stands stock still, as though frozen in position. "Loki?"

"Yes," he says automatically, blinking then stepping towards the edge of the cell, Natasha quickly moving to fall into step with him. Thor leads the way ahead, constantly throwing glances over his shoulder, as though expecting to turn around and find Loki gone, or Natasha dead, or both. He settles down a little when they reach the main halls of the palace, and soon he opens a set of double doors leading out into a courtyard. Beyond the high stone walls, Natasha can see treetops in the distance, and wonders whether a trip into the woods is beyond reason today.

At the sight of Loki, the few people in the courtyard scatter, heading inside without an ounce of discretion. From the corner of Natasha's eye, she catches him smirking. Thor slows, waiting for the two of them to catch up, and Natasha feels Loki tense beside her when they reach him.

"Are you all right?" Thor asks quietly, not looking at Loki. "Do you need to rest?"

Loki glances at Natasha, and doesn't say anything.

"He's talking to _you_," Natasha informs him with a roll of her eyes. Loki scowls, apparently the automatic response for any words Thor directs towards him.

"I'm _fine_," he says haughtily, and he speeds up his pace, the chain linking him and Natasha, jerking her forwards so she stumbles. She catches up with a few hurried steps and Thor strides past, storming ahead to the gate on the other side of the courtyard, gesturing for the two guards stationed either side to open it.

"_Are you_ fine?" Natasha asks quietly.

"Yes," Loki replies through gritted teeth.

"I overdid it my first time out, spent days recovering afterwards. Just take it easy, all right?"

Loki ignores her and glares at the guards as they pass through the gates. Thor is already heading towards the dense trees in the distance, and the path narrows until it is only just wide enough for two.

"Did you play out here as a kid?"

"Yes."

"It's pretty cool," Natasha says, taking in the surroundings. She's never really seen this side of Asgard before - only the gleaming, opalescent palaces and slender towers, continuously cloaked in a golden, ethereal glow. The rocky path to the woods, however, weaves through dark green countryside, the air somehow cooler out here than it was in the courtyard. Perhaps there is a warmth to the palace that halts at the boundaries, or maybe it's just her imagination, but just by stepping beyond the palace walls, it feels like they've entered a wilderness far beyond the civility and luxury of what she's experienced of Asgard so far.

Beside her, Loki takes deep breaths as they walk, and occasionally he stumbles on a jutting rock or a dip in the path, but Natasha does him the decency of pretending she's admiring the scenery, and that she doesn't notice the sudden jerk of the chain that links them. Eventually they reach the damp, chilly shade of the woods, and Loki breaks away from the path as soon as possible, Thor keeping an eye on the pair of them as they overtake him and walk ahead, Natasha hopping over large, gnarled tree roots and side stepping low hanging branches. The twigs and bark crunch underfoot, and coupled with the sound of nearby running water, it's actually quite relaxing.

Loki leads her along the edge of a small, clear stream, and after a few minutes it starts to widen, until they come to a clearing in the trees and it opens out into a small lagoon, lit by the small circle of light that manages to break through the gap in the treetops high above them. Loki heads over to the nearest tree and slumps down onto the roots, resting his back against the trunk. Natasha follows suit, trying to ignore the rapid pulse she can see in his neck, and the way he's wheezing just a little as he tries to catch his breath.

Thor catches her eye, and they exchange a grim look, but neither say anything. He takes his rest at a tree a little further along, giving the pair of them some space. Natasha rests her head against the bark behind her and looks around. Clearly, Loki knows these woods like the back of his hand, and Thor apparently knows this place too. She wonders if they used to come here as children together, perhaps swim in the lagoon or play amongst the trees. Whatever significance this place holds for them, she is quite sure that the both of them, silent and sombre, are recalling days gone by, and refusing to acknowledge any sense of nostalgia for them.

Natasha raises her knees and leans them towards Loki, hiding her hand from view as she slips it into his coat pocket and removes the bar of chocolate, placing it on the ground between them and opening it carefully with one hand. She breaks off a piece and hands it to Loki, whose eyes flick up to check that Thor isn't watching, and then he pops the square of chocolate into his mouth. Natasha takes a piece for herself and waits for it to melt in her mouth, knowing that if she dares crunch it, the sound will catch Thor's attention and Loki's mood will take a nosedive.

"This is odd," Loki says softly, breaking off a new piece quietly, his gaze fixed on Thor, who is looking out across the lagoon, his chin resting on top of his knees.

"In what way?" Natasha asks.

"It's sweet, and yet it's bitter," Loki muses, holding the fresh piece up to his nose and inhaling deeply. "We don't have anything like this here."

"I didn't think you would," Natasha replies. "It's pretty common on Earth."

"Lots of things are common in your world," he says, his speech slightly impaired by the chocolate now melting on his tongue. "You seem to have everything you wish for."

"In New York, yeah." Natasha takes another piece of chocolate for herself, wincing as the foil rustles noisily. "But the joke is we have enough food to feed everybody on the planet, but there are still millions of people that go hungry. Don't think we've got it made down there. We're a very selfish world."

"You could say the same of Asgard," Loki tells her, stretching his legs out in front of him and rubbing his thighs, as though trying to ease strained muscles. "Of all worlds, I imagine."

"Yeah," Natasha sighs. "I guess it's not just humans who are selfish."

Loki smirks and takes another piece of chocolate, his cheeks narrowing as he sucks all the flavour out of it. The conversation lulls as they finish the chocolate, and when they're done, Natasha carefully folds the paper and the foil into a small neat square and slips it into the pocket of her jacket, Thor still completely oblivious (or not, as the case may be, but that's not for Loki to know) of their little forest feast.

"Have you used it yet?" Loki asks, breaking the silence.

"I'm sorry?" Natasha replies, turning to face him.

He reaches up a hand and touches the twisted piece of silver in Natasha's hair, which she's taken to wearing regularly, still rather unsure of when, or even if, it might come in handy.

"Oh," Natasha says, "No, I haven't."

His lips twist into a smirk and he turns to look out across the lagoon. "All quiet on Midgard then."

"Yeah..." Natasha says slowly, frowning as she touches the hair decoration, her curiosity about its uses reignited. For the first day or so, she'd been obsessed with finding out its true purpose, but when it never presented itself in any remotely difficult situation, she decided that she ought to forget about it. After all, if a watched pot never boils, perhaps an enchanted hair clip will never work its magic if you wait with bated breath.

"I could always come down and liven things up for you," he says smoothly, a small smile playing at his lips.

"I think we're good," Natasha says, resting her chin on her palm. "We're still cleaning up after last time."

"_Really_?" There is a hint of pride to his tone and Natasha can't help but smile. She doesn't know why, because she was there, and the damage was devastating. Insurance companies refused to pay out to the small businesses, claiming it as an act of terrorism, or else an act of God, depending on the views of their CEOs, while the large corporations were up and running as usual within days. Some people gave up and walked away, leaving the mess for someone else, others scraped together enough money to get themselves tentatively back on their feet, and Natasha knows that Tony paid well over the odds for a ten percent share in his favourite pizza joint, just because he had a hankering for a deep pan.

"Yeah," Natasha says, picking at a loose bit of bark on a nearby tree root. "It's still a bit of a mess in some places."

"So I made my mark then?" Loki asks, and Natasha doesn't even have to look to know that he's grinning. She can hear it in his voice, in the measured way in which he speaks, glee carefully contained.

"You made sure you wouldn't be welcomed back," Natasha says stiffly.

Loki turns to look at her, considering her for a moment, but she doesn't hold his gaze, instead choosing to focus on the loose bark, her fingers picking at the edge of it.

"Sorry," he says gently, turning away from her.

"What?"

"It's your home. I shouldn't...I mean it's not..."

Natasha opens her mouth to speak, but no words come. It's not remorse, not for what he did, but perhaps for displaying such open delight at the idea of her home still being in ruins after his antics, it just might be. She had no idea he was capable of such things, and she doesn't want to push the matter, for fear of discouraging future exhibitions of the same, but that does nothing to end her current bout of speechlessness. Eventually she finds words, and they come out before she can consider them.

"I don't really have a home, so you know, it's not..." she trails off, annoyed with herself for giving him something of an excuse, or just an easy ride. It's true, what she's saying, but by lessening the effect of his words on her, she lessens the effect of his actions on the people of the city, those who were born there, who have built lives based around that ridiculous grid of city blocks. Just because she finds it straight and dull and characterless, it doesn't mean the rest of the city does, and it certainly doesn't excuse him.

"Do you not?"

Natasha shakes her head. "Born in Russia...only ever go back home to screw people over." She smiles, laughing softly to herself. "Never really settled anywhere."

"I wasn't born in Asgard," Loki murmurs.

"I know," Natasha replies, watching his reaction carefully. "I've read your file. Explained a lot."

Loki's eyes flash, but Natasha stands her ground, not reacting, not even a little, and as soon as the anger flares, it's gone, replaced with the same melancholic expression that she's used to.

"Did it really?" he asks bitterly, picking up a pebble and launching it towards the lagoon. It lands with a small plop, a few large droplets of water splashing outwards. Thor looks up, holds Loki's gaze for a few seconds, then resumes his staring out across the lagoon.

"Yeah. It did."

Loki stands, and Natasha follows suit, keeping a close eye on him as he grips the tree trunk behind in order to keep his balance until he finds sure footing. She skews her lips to the side, wondering whether she ought to say anything, or let him just get on with it. If it's the first time he's been out in months then he's bound to be a little shaky. Before she can ponder his health any further, he's leading her down to the bank of the lagoon, and when they reach it he leans forward, grabbing a handful of smooth, flat pebbles. He takes one with his free hand, and skims it across the water. It skips across the surface once, twice, three times, before disappearing into the pool, and he takes another one, huffing impatiently when it only manages to skip twice before giving up.

After a few more goes, he's into the swing of it a little more, managing to get a good four or five skips before the pebbles run out of steam. Thor tentatively makes his way down to the bank, standing a few feet to Natasha's left, watching the progress of the stones across the lake. When Loki runs out of pebbles and bends down to pick up more, Thor also grabs a handful, chooses the flattest one resting in his large palm, then tosses it to the water. It makes a _thunk _and a _splash_ as it lands, not managing to skim even once.

"Ignore Thor," Loki mutters. "He's always lacked finesse."

Natasha glances over at Thor, who's frowning while he chooses his next stone. He tries again, but doesn't have any more luck than on the previous attempt. Loki takes the opportunity to make his best skim yet, managing a total of seven skips across the crystal clear surface.

"He always claimed that I cheated by using my magic," Loki continues in a clearer voice. "But I think we can all see that he's just a sore loser. There's nothing special about me now, and still I'm better at it than he is."

Natasha frowns. "What do you mean there's nothing special about you?"

The stone in Loki's hand doesn't get quite the right trajectory when he releases it, and drops to the bottom of the lagoon with a disappointing splash.

"My father has seen to it that I am no longer in possession of my talent," he says his voice dropping back down in volume, now that he's no longer bragging.

"But you said to me last time I was here that your mind _and_ your magic set you apart. You still have your mind."

"And what use is it without the skills to do anything worthwhile?"

"What do you consider to be worthwhile? Invading cities?"

Loki ignores her, and casts his next stone with a little more force than necessary, resulting in a singular disappointing skip. Natasha glances at Thor, who momentarily looks up to meet her eye before returning to choosing his next stone. She knows she won't get any more out of Loki today, that his lips are sealed on all matters regarding himself from now on, but it's interesting to know that he considers his magic to be his most valuable skill not as warrior but as a person. She learned long ago that skill does not define worth, mostly from the fact that some of the most skilled men she's met in her life have been complete and utter assholes, while some of the most useless, clumsy boneheads she's met have been the kindest. She knows which one she'd rather have by her side in a fight, and it's not the one she'd choose to spend an evening at a bar with. Maybe she'll broach the subject again one day, but for now, she knows it's best for her to leave it be.

"So d'you know what this does?" she asks, gesturing towards her hair.

Loki pauses in his skimming long enough to see that she's pointing to her hair clip, and the stony expression on his face softens, just a little.

"I might," he says coyly.

"Are you gonna tell me?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because you'll find out in your own time," he tells her, dropping down to his haunches and sifting through the pebbles at their feet, trying to find the best ones. Once he's picked out a handful, he places his spare hand on his knee, as though bracing himself, then takes a deep breath before standing up straight once more. His knees shake a little as he stands, but Natasha doesn't draw attention to it. She does wonder if it might be time to head back, however.

"I think you don't _know_, and that's why you won't say."

"My mother's magic is very subtle," Loki says, turning over the stones in his hand before picking one out and skimming it. Natasha loses count of the skips, but it does make it to the far bank, and it's this that washes away the last of Loki's sour expression, replacing it with a gentle, slightly triumphant smile. "It barely leaves a trace, unlike most enchantments. I have an idea, but her magic is such that I can never be sure."

"What's your idea?" Natasha presses, her patience dwindling as he rubs his thumb over a smooth grey pebble, his attention far more focused on his skimming than it is on her questions.

"That you should forget about it, and the magic will present itself when required."

"That's it?"

"That's all I'm going to tell you. She's done a very good job with the emeralds though, they rather suit you."

Natasha blinks, unsure of how to respond to what sounds like a compliment coming from him. She's still not quite used to the idea that underneath the crazed, power hungry lunatic she met on the helicarrier there is a rather sane, rather civil and very intelligent man. It just doesn't add up. In her experience, crazy is usually crazy right through to the core, but Loki's different. Whether his jail time has given him a few things to think about, or whether he was really crazy in the first place, she doesn't know. What she does know is that she's quite sure that the deranged villain who attacked New York is long gone, and unless something terrible happens, she'd be happy to bet they won't be seeing him again.

Loki skims the last of his stones, putting Thor's own efforts to shame each and every time. When the pile in his hand runs out, he turns away from the lagoon.

"I want to go back," he says plainly.

Thor looks surprised, but Natasha isn't. If anything, she's surprised he lasted this long. Going outside for the first time in months, after only having one constant square of space in which to live, in her experience is a little overwhelming. Not just because of the physical consequences, but also because of the sheer scale of the outside world, and on Asgard, everything is about scale.

They head back towards the path, Loki leading the way, Thor trundling along about ten yards behind them.

"You okay?" Natasha asks.

"Fine."

"I'm sure you'll be able to come out again, if you wanted to. It's not been disastrous, has it?"

Loki ignores her, and they start making their way down the uneven path, Natasha's careful footing turning into something of a dance as she avoids the large rocks peeking through the crust of the mud, the sudden dips and the soft, slippy mush that never quite dries out after rainfall. Loki, on the other hand, as careful as he is, is far too stubborn. He strides back towards the palace, despite the fact that his even more pallid than usual complexion suggests that he might need to slow it down, just a little. Natasha has to speed up to remain at his side, and it's gotten to the point where she knows that it is gravity and motion pulling him forward, and his feet aren't taking the steps, but merely ensuring he doesn't fall flat on his face. That is until Natasha feels the jerk of the chain and can't stop herself from falling on top of Loki. They skid down the path a short distance, and Natasha feels the knee of her jeans rip, and the familiar feeling of skin being split. She hears Thor yell in the background, and when they slow, his thundering footsteps approach. Before she knows what's happening, she's been picked up by the back of her jacket and placed on her feet once more, while Thor leans over Loki, whose teeth are gritted in pain as he pushes himself up into a sitting position.

"Where are you hurt?" Thor demands.

"I'm _fine_," Loki snaps. His lie is obvious - he's shaking, his hands are covered in blood and he closes his eyes, taking deep steadying breaths while Thor grips his shoulder.

"What happened?" Natasha asks.

"I _fell_," he replies irritably. "Your powers of observation really _are_ unrivalled, aren't they?"

"Do you need me to carry you back?" Thor asks, so quietly that Natasha's not sure she's heard him right at all. When Loki's eyes snap open, however, she knows she has, and Loki pushes himself unsteadily to his feet, his legs wobbling under his weight. He wipes his bloodied hands on his coat and turns away from Thor. Natasha falls into step with him, trying not to pay too much attention to his limp. It's not difficult, because her own knee is smarting nastily and is taking up a fair amount of her focus anyway. Hers is just a surface wound however. She can tell by Loki's uneasy gait that he's twisted something, and his grimace suggests that it's not something he can simply walk off. Thor follows them much more closely now, and Natasha doesn't even bother to make conversation. Loki's foul mood will give her nothing but venomous retorts, and even if he _were_ in the mood for talking, he wouldn't do so with Thor in earshot.

While they wait for Thor to unlock the gates to the courtyard, Loki leans against the wall, his chest heaving as he inhales huge gulps of air, his fingers still trembling despite his attempts to calm them by clenching and unclenching his fists.

It's something of a relief when they make it back to the cell. The glass springs back into existence upon Thor's silent command, and he unlocks the manacles, Natasha's wrist feeling a thousand times lighter for their absence. Loki lowers himself to his usual spot, resting his head against the wall and closing his eyes, and before Thor can even think about cleaning Loki's hands with a bowl of water and a cloth, he's fallen asleep, his head lolling gently to one side.

"Will you fix his hands?" Thor asks quietly. "I fear if I wake him he'll panic and...well...I feel he would be more at ease to wake to the sight of you." He smiles softly, but behind the forced humour, Natasha can quite clearly see the heartache of a man who wants to help his brother but knows he will only make things worse.

"Yeah," Natasha answers. "And if you send down some food I'll...well, I'll appreciate it. I'm starving."

Thor nods, glancing down at Loki, and gives her a faint, knowing smile. "Consider it done," he replies. "Do you need anything for your knee?"

Natasha shakes her head. "It's just a scratch, don't worry."

"Very well, I'll send down some food and come to collect you later. Thank you, for today."

Natasha offers a small smile and Thor leaves, closing the dungeon door behind him. She doesn't hear him secure the chains on the other side, nor does she even hear him slide the bolts across. What she does hear is the sound of weary footsteps climbing the stairs beyond, and disappearing into the distance.

Natasha takes the bowl of water and the cloth, then sits on the floor beside Loki. She takes his hand in his, wets the cloth and squeezes out the excess water, then gently wipes away the blood, grit, and dirt covering his palms. He starts awake, but Natasha shushes him gently, and says softly, "It's just me, I'm just cleaning your hands."

He lets out a small breath of relief and closes his eyes again, his hand relaxing slightly in hers. They're just scrapes, but he's caught a couple of blood vessels, making it all look far worse than it truly is.

"How's your leg?"

"Painful."

"You need anything for it? Or just rest?"

"Rest."

"Okay." She moves onto his other hand, and he allows her to clean without complaint or fuss. "You hurt anywhere else?"

He shakes his head.

"You need to tell me if you are. It doesn't make you _weak_."

"I'm _fine_."

Natasha wrings out the cloth and pushes the bowl away from her, then makes herself comfortable next to him. "Thor's going to send down some food in a little while. You gonna eat?"

He nods.

"Good," she says.

"Tell me about the first time you went outside," he says, opening his eyes blearily to meet her gaze.

Natasha raises her eyebrows, then as she starts to speak, he closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall once more. She can tell he's drinking in every detail - how the quiet of a small town wasn't particularly taxing, but the first time she got to the city, the sheer volume of people and traffic and noise left her on her knees in an alleyway, refusing to acknowledge a panic attack while she threw up all over a discarded pizza box. By the time she's telling him about the week and a half that followed, where she spent the entire time locked in her apartment with the curtains shut and the TV on constantly to block out the noise of other people, he's fast asleep, his head resting against her shoulder.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **I nearly died writing this chapter. I mean I _didn't_, but like, I totally nearly did. You guys better like it cause you know, I'll be gutted if you don't.

* * *

**Turn**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

The sound of her name catches her attention. She blinks, looks up, her eyes scanning the table for the most expectant expression, in order to try and gauge who exactly is addressing her. As it stands, all the men sitting at the table are looking at her expectantly, and so she has no choice but to reveal her unusually short attention span to them all.

"As I was _saying_," Fury says impatiently, his one visible eye bulging slightly as he stares at her. "Natasha is currently on loan to Asgard, so she _can't_ be involved. She can't even pay attention to a conversation it seems."

"Give her a break," Clint says, smirking. "She was up all night with the kid."

The room fills with the sound of snickering, and even Steve smiles, though it is quickly replaced with an apologetic look at Natasha's frosty expression.

"Shouldn't you be hanging out in your nest or something?" Fury asks, turning his attention to Clint, who immediately quietens at his tone. "And as for the rest of you _clowns_, I don't see any of _you_ building good, working relationships with _gods_."

"By babysitting?" Tony asks, one eyebrow raised.

"We ask Thor for a favour, I doubt he'll say no. Natasha has him eating outta the palm of her hand, right?"

"Well," Natasha says, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "He did say that he'd offer up his services in exchange. So I guess if we ever need his help…" She doesn't like the idea of manipulating Thor, nor using him. He has his faults, just like everybody else, but he is one of the few people she's ever met who is good to the core. He, unlike her, unlike Loki, and unlike Fury, doesn't believe in screwing people over in the way that others might. She knows that Loki finds it naïve, almost piteous, but she considers it quite admirable. Not that she'd ever take a leaf out of his book. It all sounds far too taxing, being decent.

"Exactly, and if you're getting Loki to actually behave himself, I daresay Odin would be looking kindly on our world."

Natasha doesn't respond to that. She doubts Odin gives a damn, but she won't burst Fury's bubble. He's always keen to make sure that he's getting something for his troubles, and if he's talked himself into believing that Natasha's work with Loki has formed an unbreakable alliance with Asgard then so be it. She's not sure he realises that an alliance with Thor and an alliance with Asgard are not the same thing, regardless of the fact that he's the crown prince.

"You're getting him to behave?" Tony asks with a raised eyebrow. "How? You give him a spanking?"

"Stark," Fury says cuttingly, before Natasha can retort. "There is a _line_."

Tony smirks, and then winks at Natasha – a gesture which she has come to realise is the physical representation of the words 'no offence'.

"So…what is he like now?" Bruce asks cautiously, his glasses held loosely in his hand. Natasha's pretty sure they spend more time there than on his head.

"Manageable," Natasha says coolly. "With the right tactics."

"What kinda tactics?" Steve asks, his head slightly cocked to one side in curiosity.

"You know…treating him like a person usually works well. I think it's been a while for him."

Clint's jaw clenches and she looks away. She knows the idea of her being remotely civil to Loki, given the history, and given her and Clint's loyalty to one another, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. She hasn't even bothered trying to explain that he's different now, she knows there'd be no point, that some wounds run too deep to heal.

"You mean, you're _nice_ to him?" Steve says incredulously. "After everything?"

"_Yes_," Natasha responds curtly.

"I don't mean anything by it," Steve says, holding up his hands defensively. "I just…you never really struck me as the forgiving type. I just assumed it was a 'sit still, shut the hell up or I'll kick your ass' kinda job for you."

Natasha shakes her head, but then Clint speaks up.

"She takes him gifts. For when he's been a _good boy_." The last two words come out in a mocking tone and Natasha feels a rush of anger flash through her veins. Clint's gaze is fixed on her, as though he's testing her, to see how much she'll run to Loki's defence.

"Are you _jealous_?" she asks politely. "Do you need me to validate good behaviour with rewards? Because if you do, you're not gonna be getting any gold stars any time soon."

Tony lets out a long, low whistle, and Bruce looks down at his hands, fiddling with his glasses, turning them over and over in his fingers, the light catching them on each rotation.

"No luxury fairtrade organic chocolate for me then? My God, how will I cope?"

"We can always see how you'll cope with my foot up your ass. Although I'd have to remove your head from there _first_."

Clint opens his mouth to respond but Fury slams his hand down on the table, the whole thing shuddering with the force of the blow. Silence falls immediately, and Natasha is the only one to meet his gaze. Everybody else is suddenly very interested in the wood grain, even Clint, whose fists are clenched, his muscles tense and twitching.

"Agent Barton, if you have an _issue_ with Agent Romanov's current assignment, you can address your feelings to me. How she conducts herself during the assignment is left to her own judgement, providing she is representing our organisation in a dignified manner. If that involves buying a cookie for the guy when he goes a whole day without blowing shit up, then so _be it_."

"Nat," Clint says, looking up at her at last. "This is the guy who opened up my mind and crept in like poison. This the guy who stripped me of everything that was _me_ and turned me into his own personal killing machine."

"And if I were to say to you that he'd had the same done to him?" Natasha asks quietly. "If he were being controlled by someone with skills beyond even his."

"I'd call bullshit," Clint says firmly, sitting back in his seat and folding his arms. "He knew what he was doing."

Natasha shrugs. "Believe what you want, but he's civil towards me. Even stood up for me when two of the asshole guards were laughing about me being a woman."

"Oh well give the guy a medal, he's a murderer but at least he's not _sexist_."

"I think we've heard enough," Fury interrupts, before Clint can get wound up again. "Bottom line is, Thor's happy with what Natasha's doing and Loki's responding well to…rehabilitation, chocolate, whatever you wanna call it."

"What have you got for him this time?" Tony asks. "Etch-a-Sketch?"

"That's not a bad idea," Natasha says, skewing her lips to one side. It would certainly keep him occupied, and it's the sort of novelty that he would enjoy, even if just for a few days. She continues to ponder it while the meeting picks up again around her, keeping one ear open for important information that never materialises.

Come the summer, she'll be longing for the slow, lazy days like this. That knowledge, however, does _not_ make the meeting any more enjoyable.

* * *

"You turn the dials," she says, leaning over his shoulder to look at the screen. "And it draws the line based on which way you turn."

Loki scowls as a line shoots off to the other side of the Etch-a-Sketch screen, and huffs.

"You'll get used to it," Natasha says, sitting down next to him. In truth, it had been a genius idea from Tony. The amount of concentration he'll have to use in order to get the hang of using the dials will only be good for him after such a long stretch of monotony and mental inactivity.

"I don't know how I'm supposed to hide this in here anyway," he says sulkily, setting it to one side with a sour expression. "Cards are one thing but this? It's huge, it's red, it's _asking_ to be found."

Natasha opens her mouth to respond then decides to go for a slightly guilty looking smile instead.

"What?"

"I asked Thor if you could have it," she tells him. "He said yes. He genuinely doesn't care what you have in here as long as it's not a _bomb_ or something."

Loki fixes her with an icy glare.

"You _invaded another planet_," she reminds him. "But you're still his brother. You need to remember that. Because he certainly does."

Loki ignores her, and decides to focus all of his energy on the Etch-a-Sketch instead. Natasha rests her chin against her palm, watching out of the corner of her eye as he experiments with basic shapes, followed by letters, and then simple pictures.

"You like it?" Natasha asks tentatively after a while. He's trying to draw the main palace of Asgard and isn't doing too badly at all. It's recognisable at least. Natasha's never been able to get more than a squiggle of lines out of one them, so perhaps she's easily impressed.

"It's certainly addictive…" he murmurs, turning the dials minutely, the Etch-a-Sketch resting against his knees as he squints at it.

"I'll take that as a yes," she says with a small smile. She makes a mental note to let Tony know just how much Loki's enjoying his idea, and another to make sure she tells him when Clint is out of earshot. The idea of another argument in front of everybody doesn't really appeal. She wonders if he'd feel the same if he could see Loki now, stripped back, kept away from the demons that taunted him and manipulated him and used him. Or whether he'd just shrug it off, and say he knew what he was doing all along. In truth, Natasha thinks he probably _did_ know what he was doing, but she does wonder what kind of poisonous words were whispered in his ear to turn him from overshadowed younger brother into a fully-fledged maniac. Thanos must have tapped into some pretty deeply rooted paranoia in order to have Loki turn to putty in his hands.

"Did you bring any chocolate?" Loki asks, interrupting her train of thought.

She shakes her head. "Why? Hungry?"

Loki shrugs. "I liked it."

"Maybe next time," she tells him. "Food's coming soon anyway. You gonna eat?"

He nods, still fiddling with the dials on his Etch-a-Sketch.

"You know he _wants _you to be well. You don't have to save eating only for when I'm here."

Loki finally breaks his gaze away from the Etch-a-Sketch, looking straight ahead at the glass opposite. It's unsteady ground that she's treading on, but it's also getting quite ridiculous. Thor's motives are not underhand or self-serving, but Loki's time alone in his cell has resulted in humungous amounts of overthinking, overanalysing, providing a huge melting pot for all of his paranoia and fears to merge together.

"You're not the same as him," he says, his eyes still fixed on the glass. "He always acts like he's doing me a huge favour, by bringing me food. You don't do that."

"Well I only bring it into your cell, it's not like I cooked it."

"You think _Thor_ cooks any of it? You think he even knows _how to_?"

"Do _you_ know how to cook?" Natasha asks, turning to him with a smile spreading across her lips.

"I learned a lot of things in my exile. Cooking was one."

This surprises her. She had assumed that Loki, by his nature, would have found somebody else to complete all of his menial tasks for him. She's never given too much thought to the practicalities of his exile, to the ins and outs of day to day life in the darkest, nastiest corners of the universe. The idea of him cooking is a strange one, but then she highly doubts that any of it would have been Michelin starred cuisine. Perhaps his ability to go without food in his cell stems from his exile, where he _had_ to go without.

"He won't think any less of you for accepting food," she says, dragging them back to her main point. "He was worried about you when we were out…when you fell. He doesn't like the idea of his little brother not being well."

Loki gives her a venomous look but she pays it no notice.

"Like it or not, you will _always _be his little brother. There's no getting away from that, and no matter how far you fall, he will _always_ pick you back up. He can't change what you do, because that's your choice. But he could have left you down here to rot. He doesn't have to bring you food every day, he doesn't have to even come and see you. He fought with your father over letting you out you know. He's _worried _about you, because he _cares_." She sits back, taking a breath and waiting for some sort of response from Loki. He's focusing on the Etch-a-Sketch again, twisting the dials, his jaw jutting forward.

There's a clatter that announces the arrival of food, and Natasha gets to her feet, leaves the cell and collects the tray, which has even more food on it than usual. Perhaps Thor is pushing his luck, hoping that Loki's appetite will increase, now that he's been outside and had some exercise. But Natasha fears that she too has been pushing her luck, and will be hard pressed to get Loki to eat anything at all, even though she knows he wants to.

When she sets the tray between them, he puts down his Etch-a-Sketch and picks up a plate, filling it silently, not even acknowledging her existence as they both begin to eat. Only the sounds of their cutlery clinking against their plates break the silence, and Natasha chews her food slowly, her skin prickling as the tension between them builds.

It's not until Loki is cutting up his meat with a little more aggression than is truly necessary that they actually exchange words. He slams his knife and fork down and looks up at her, his eyebrows contorted into an indignant frown. He inhales sharply, as though about to speak, then huffs, shaking his head, picks up his knife and fork once more, but throws them down again moments later.

"How can you come into my cell and try and manipulate me into being his pet? You _claimed_ to understand, and yet you're trying to mould me into exactly what they want, my _captors_."

"I'm not _trying_ to make you do anything," Natasha replies coolly, pushing her food around her plate with her fork then spearing a potato on the end of it. "I don't gain anything from whatever path you choose to take. I just think you'd be happier if you were out of here and the only way you're gonna get out of here is if you rebuild some bridges." She pops the potato into her mouth and chews it, glancing up at him. He's glaring at her as though he can't believe that she has the audacity to eat while he's having a crisis, but the food's getting cold, and she's not about to abandon it just because he's behaving like a child.

"I burned those bridges a long time ago," he says darkly.

"No you didn't," Natasha replies quickly. "You tried, but you didn't."

"_What_?"

"You're gonna have to do a hell of a lot worse for Thor to stop caring about you. And that," she says, jabbing her fork in his direction, "Is _not _a challenge."

"I don't _want_ Thor to care about me," he snarls.

"Well that's tough, because he does. And the more you claim that he's the most awful person in the universe, the more childish and idiotic you look. All he's trying to do is look after you, _even though _you tried to take over an entire planet _and _tried to kill him what, half a dozen times?"

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Loki snaps, dumping his plate back on the tray and pushing the entire lot away. It skids across the floor, coming to a halt just short of the glass on the far side of the room.

Natasha pauses, mid-chew, and raises an eyebrow.

"Get out."

She doesn't argue. She puts down her plate, stands up, and then takes the Etch-a-Sketch from Loki's side. He narrows his eyes, but doesn't say a word as she retreats to the glass, passing through it with minimal discomfort. She places the Etch-a-Sketch on the table and sits down in the wooden chair, making herself as comfortable as possible, her elbow propped up on the carved arm. She doesn't say another word, and nor does Loki. In fact, they both stay completely still, except for the rise and fall of their chests as they breathe – Natasha softly, Loki with sulky, childlike huffs and puffs. She continues to watch him and he stares ahead, his expression set.

The next hour crawls by, and during that time, Natasha's body starts to ache from the hardness of the chair. She'd grown quite used to the floor of Loki's cell, and she's mostly annoyed by his childish behaviour because it's landed her in such an uncomfortable sitting position. She won't move however. She's far too stubborn for that.

She loses track of the time easily after a while, but eventually she hears the sound of footsteps, descending the stairs, before the door is pushed open. She looks up, expecting Thor, but Frejir, the guard, is standing in the doorway, his shoulders squared, his neck extended as much as he can manage, as though he's trying to make himself look even taller than he already is.

"Can I help you?" Natasha asks, not bothering to get up from her seat.

Frejir's lip curls, his cool blue eyes gliding down Natasha's form. "I've come to see how mortals work," he says, stepping further into the room, closing the door behind him. "But apparently," he gestures to Natasha and her chair, "They don't!"

"Well, we're smart enough to know when we _need_ to work," Natasha replies, glancing down at her nails casually before looking up again and meeting Frejir's gaze. "Instead of just being puppets that follow orders."

From the corner of her eye she can see that Loki's back has straightened. He's no longer leaning against the wall, and his fingertips are resting against the floor, as though he's ready to stand at a moment's notice. Perhaps he doesn't have as much confidence in her ability to handle Frejir as he had previously expressed. She's almost disappointed.

"I serve the King," Frejir hisses. "Only the most honourable and noble -"

"Yeah," Natasha interrupts. "I'm sure you're very special…just like everybody else."

Frejir lets out a grunt of annoyance and starts towards her. She doesn't move, having already picked out seven weak spots in his armour, should she need to make good use of them. When he reaches her, he towers over her, and from inside the cell, Loki stands silently, making his way to the glass. He meet's Natasha's eye but she simply smirks and looks up at Frejir, who is apparently distracted.

"What's this?" he demands, picking up the Etch-a-Sketch.

"Nothing that concerns you," Natasha replies. Behind Frejir, she can see Loki's jaw clench, his shoulders stiffen, and she knows, despite the triviality of the Etch-a-Sketch, and the fact that it's been confiscated for his bad behaviour, he takes it as a personal insult that Frejir has dared lay his hands on it.

"Well," Frejir says simply. "If it doesn't concern me, then it shouldn't concern you."

Natasha knows what's coming a split second before it does. She sees the flex of his muscles, his knuckles pop under the skin, and then, the Etch-a-Sketch shatters, red plastic shards shooting off in all directions as the fine, silvery powder pours from the insides, staining Frejir's boots.

"That was _mine_," Loki hisses, slamming a fist against the glass.

Frejir tosses the remaining pieces to the floor and approaches the glass, only stopping when his nose is inches away. He's far taller than Loki, who doesn't retreat (he's just as stubborn as Natasha is in these situations it seems) and then his mouth breaks into a smile.

"What are you going to do? Complain to Daddy?"

Loki's fingers twitch, as though he's itching to put his hands around Frejir's neck and squeeze every last molecule of air out of him, but instead, a wry smile works its way onto his lips. "Oh no," he says silkily. "But I'll be out of here soon enough, Frejir. I was out yesterday, you probably heard. I'll be out again soon, and when I am, I will break you into more pieces than that -" he waves a hand towards the remnants of the Etch-a-Sketch. "You'll long for death, but I won't give it to you until I'm quite bored of hearing you scream."

"I've killed Frost Giants before," Frejir murmurs, his breath misting against the glass. "I'm sure a Frost Runt will be no problem."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Loki replies plainly. His face has glazed over, a smooth mask in place of his real expressions. Natasha pushes herself forward in her chair just a little. She doesn't know whether Frejir can enter the cell or not, but if he can, then her job description will have to shift from captor to protector. She doesn't mind one little bit, because the jibe about Loki's parentage is way below the belt in her eyes.

"I've heard the whispers, _Laufeyson_. I wonder what kind of mutts a Frost Runt and a mortal whore will make. Ones that I could crush with a single hand, I daresay."

"I wouldn't anger her, if I were you, Frejir," Loki says coldly, taking a step back from the glass, his eyes sliding over to Natasha. "I've heard stories of her work. She is a _legend_."

Frejir turns to Natasha, one eyebrow raised. "Midgard has always had low standards."

"Yeah, they labour under the delusion that Asgardians are gods…if they met _you _they'd soon realise they were very much mistaken."

"You do far too much talking, for a woman," Frejir says, walking slowly towards her.

Natasha laughs in disbelief and turns to Loki. "Is this asshole for _real_?"

"Unfortunately yes," Loki replies, the corners of his mouth curving upwards in a small smile. His eyes are narrowed, and he takes small, shallow breaths as he watches them, his anticipation apparently building with each passing second.

"When the guy in the cage has more manners than you, it's probably time to re-evaluate your life choices," Natasha says, turning back to Frejir, who growls in response and launches himself towards her. Natasha acts quickly, flipping herself over the back of the chair and landing deftly on her feet, skipping backwards as Frejir smashes into the empty chair, splintering the wood and coming crashing down to the floor. He pushes himself up without a moment's hesitation and lunges again, Natasha sidestepping at the last moment, ducking under his outstretched arms.

As she skirts around the edge of the wall, she catches sight of Loki, his hands and forehead pressed against the glass as he watches them, his mouth slightly ajar in shock, and his eyes wide.

"I don't see much evidence of skill!" Frejir growls. "There is no talent in running like a coward!"

Natasha skews her lips, torn between the sensible option of getting to the other side of the room and ringing the bell so Thor will come and get rid of Frejir for her, or the far more appealing option of showing him a few of her party tricks. Instinct makes her decision for her when Frejir lunges again. Instead of ducking and sliding between his legs (which she's pretty sure would give her enough time to reach the bell) she grabs one of his outstretched arms, twisting and ducking and forcing him face first into the solid stone wall. He lets out a strangled yell as she levers his arm back with all the strength she can muster, but he manages to shake her off and recover far more quickly than any of her human opponents ever have.

Her heart is pounding in her chest, adrenalin pumping through her. It's been so long since she's seen combat, and no matter how much she spars with Clint in order to stay in shape, there is nothing quite like the thrill of danger. Frejir's main tactic, it seems, is to lunge and hope. When he next comes storming towards her, Natasha ducks, throwing back a hand to balance herself before sending her right foot flying into the side of Frejir's knee. His leg gives way and he falls, but before Natasha can get out of the way, he's on top of her, the weight of him and his armour combined crushing her. He reaches out one large hand, grabbing a fistful of her hair, and Natasha digs her nails into his wrist, piercing the skin. Frejir doesn't release her however, and she struggles under him as he tries to grip her wrists with his spare hand.

"Frejir wait!" Loki bellows.

Frejir looks up, and Natasha, hardly daring to believe that it worked, takes the opportunity to send her knuckles flying into Frejir's Adam's apple. He chokes, his face turning an angry shade of magenta, as he wheezes, and Natasha manages to free herself, deciding that it's probably about time for her to call for backup.

She doesn't make it more than two steps. Frejir snatches at her ankle and jerks her leg backwards, sending her plummeting to the floor. When her head catches the edge of the stone step leading up to Loki's cage, she's blinded by whiteness, can feel the warm trickle of blood start to pool, but she fights through it, twisting around and using her free leg to land a kick square in Frejir's face. Her heel catches his nose three times before his grip loosens enough for her to land one last blow to the hand locked around her ankle. His fingers spasm and there is a split second in which Natasha is able to free herself, scrambling towards the bell ropes.

"Natasha!" Loki's shout gets her attention just in time for her to see one of the splintered wooden chair legs come hurtling towards her. She throws herself out of its way and it smashes into the wall behind her. Frejir lets out a roar of fury and Natasha lunges for the ropes, in the rush unable to distinguish which one serves which purpose, and so she yanks them both, a cacophony of clanging sounding in the distance. She raises a hand to wipe the blood from her face, her vision in her left eye slightly blurred and tinged pink from some rogue drops, but before she can catch her breath and evaluate Frejir's next move, he slams her into the wall, the back of her head colliding nastily with the solid stone. There is a sickening crunch and a burning in the lower part of her chest that causes her to sink her teeth into her lower lip to stop herself from screaming.

She is sandwiched between Frejir's armour and the wall, unable to move an inch, her insides searing with pain, while the back of her head feels as though it might cave in with one more blow. There's something hard digging into her skull but it's the least of her worries, especially when Frejir's thick fingers find their way to her throat and start to squeeze, her airway constricting painfully. He laughs as her eyes fill with tears, his breath rancid and warm, but Natasha tries to block it out, along with Loki's pounding against the glass and his desperate, broken calls for help.

Instead, she focuses on the fact that Thor will be here at any moment, that she's not going to die here because she can hang on, if she concentrates, if she doesn't panic or struggle. She can feel her muscles weakening, crying out for oxygen, her lungs burning in her chest, tears streaming down her face, and all the while, she remains calm, ignoring the fact that Frejir's grip is so strong that he might turn her windpipe to dust at any moment.

There is a loud clatter of metal on stone, and Natasha twists her head, hoping to see Thor. Instead, she realises that the chefs have responded more quickly than Thor – a steaming tray of food sitting in the hollow of the dumbwaiter next to her. Black spots start to distort her vision, and Frejir's large, bloodied face is going to be the last thing she'll see if she doesn't act.

Her fingers close around the handle of the wine jug, and with all her might, she throws the wine over Frejir, disorienting him enough for his grip to falter. The few particles of oxygen that she manages to drag into her lungs before he retightens his hold give her a new burst of energy, and she brings the jug crashing down on the top of Frejir's head.

"Your hair!" Loki calls, banging against the glass. "Your hair!"

It takes a moment for Natasha to register what he's saying, but then she realises that it's not the wall digging into her scalp, but her hair clip. She raises a shaking hand to the back of her head, Frejir's thumbs pressing so hard against her throat that she feels as though they might go clean through at any moment.

Instead of finding a hair clip at the back of her head, her fingers close around a solid metal hilt. Natasha looks down at Frejir's armour, and sees that the base of his throat is unprotected. Her lips stretch into a smile, and Frejir frowns, just for a moment, before Natasha sinks the dagger through his skin. He releases her instantly, but Natasha keeps a firm grip on the dagger, wrenching it out of him with a malicious twist as he falls away from her.

His eyes are wide, his face pale as blood starts to pool around his armour, trickling in thin lines towards the floor. He struggles for breath, and there is an unpleasant gurgling sound as he does so. He clasps a shaking hand to his throat, trying to stem the flow of blood, and Natasha gives him one last poisonous look before she staggers towards the cell, pressing one tremulous hand to the glass, staining it with scarlet before she is moved into the safety of Loki's cage.

She's still wheezing, her throat raw and bruised. Her entire body is shaking, and she feels as though her legs might give way at any moment, so it's something of a relief when Loki suddenly has his arms around her and lowers her to the floor gently. He sits behind her, rubbing her shoulders soothingly.

"Just breathe," he says softly. "You'll be fine, just breathe."

The dagger is still in her hand. She releases it, and it drops the floor with a clunk. She puts her head in her hands and tries to regain control of her body, but taking deep breaths only causes her ribs to send shockwaves of pain searing through her, so she settles for fast, shallow ones, which do nothing to regulate her heartbeat. She leans back against Loki, closing her eyes and trying to relax, but moments later, there is a crash, and the door explodes out of its frame. Thor lands in the middle of the room, hammer in hand, ready for combat, but at the sight of Natasha and Loki sitting together, Natasha's chest still heaving, and Frejir, on the floor, surrounded by his own blood, he drops the hammer to the ground.

"What happened?" he asks softly, kneeling down next to Frejir and inspecting the damage.

"Where the _hell _have you been?" Loki spits, extricating himself from Natasha and standing rapidly, storming towards the glass. "She rang the bell _ages_ ago."

"I was with Father…I came as soon as I -"

"He would have killed her! He very nearly did! Were it not for mother's magic -"

"Frejir?" Thor asks, his eyes wide, his voice barely above a whisper. "Frejir attacked Natasha?"

"You think _I _did?" Loki snaps, "You think that's why she's sought refuge in here, with me? Because I'm the one who tried to break her neck? Why weren't the chains on the doors?"

"I…I didn't think it necessary, I trusted that you wouldn't -"

"It's not _me_ that's the problem, _brother_," Loki spits. "But of course you never see that, do you? You come in here and assume it's me that's caused this!"

"Are you all right?"

Natasha doesn't feel like her throat can manage a verbal answer just yet, but Loki answers before she has a chance to even try.

"Get some healing stones," he says through gritted teeth, one clenched fist pressed against the glass. "And get rid of Frejir. He should be punished accordingly for this."

"Natasha, I don't know what to say, I'm so -"

"Hurry _up_," Loki cuts across. "She's in _pain_. The food got here quicker than you did, you should be _ashamed_. Once again your lack of forethought puts everybody but yourself at risk - you claim to be different from the arrogant child of before, but you're no wiser at all. It's just a _lie_."

Thor blinks and looks down at Frejir, then in one swift movement, he stands and picks Frejir up with ease, slinging him over his shoulders before disappearing from the dungeon. Mjolnir sits in the middle of the floor, amongst shards of door, chair, and Etch-a-Sketch, and after a pause, when the sound of Thor's footsteps have disappeared, Loki returns to the floor behind Natasha, brushing her hair from her face. Even his breaths are a little unsteady, and through the thin material of his shirt, she can feel his heart beating rapidly against the inside of his ribcage. As his breathing slows, so does her own, and she starts to fall into step with him, his hands a comforting presence on her shoulders.

When Loki picks up the dagger a few minutes later, she feels a flash of panic surge through her, but all he does is examine it curiously, turning it over in his hands, letting the silver catch the light.

"This would have gone through the armour you know," he says quietly in her ear. "You could have taken out his heart with it."

"Maybe next time," she says hoarsely.

He lets out a soft breath of laughter, then gently gathers her hair at the back of her head. She feels the hair clip snake its way through her locks, having apparently transformed now the danger is gone. She leans back against Loki, trying to achieve the most comfortable position for what she's pretty sure are a couple of broken ribs. Her head is pounding, but head injuries, despite all the fuss that usually comes with them, are rather easy for her to get over. She knows it'll be sore for a couple of days but the ribs…the ribs will take a long while to heal.

When Thor returns, his hands stained with Frejir's blood, he walks straight into the cell and hands Loki half a dozen chalky white pebbles.

"Natasha, I -" he begins, but Loki cuts across him, ignoring him.

"Where does it hurt most?"

"Ribs," Natasha answers, sitting up and frowning down at the stones. "Healing stones?" she asks.

"Yes," Loki replies.

"Do exactly what they say on the tin?"

Loki nods, then gestures for her to lay down. She does so, on her side, her damaged ribs facing up, and Loki gently slides the bottom of her t-shirt out of the way. She holds the gathered cotton in place with her hand, and glances at Thor, who's taken a seat on the floor too, back to the glass, a deep frown on his face.

Natasha holds her breath, and then she feels something gritty land lightly on her skin. Even the faintest pressure sends small pangs of discomfort, and when Loki lays his hand over the grit, she has to bite her lip to keep herself from making any noise. She doesn't manage to keep her leg from jerking however, and Loki places his other hand on the side of her thigh, holding it steady.

"Stay still, it'll be over soon."

An intense heat spreads through her skin and down to her ribs. There's an uncomfortable lurch as they shift back into place, and it feels as though her entire ribcage is humming, vibrating beneath the skin. Natasha squeezes her eyes shut, her fists clenched tightly, and then, without warning, the sensation vanishes. She lets out a breath, and to her surprise, it doesn't hurt. There's not even a dull ache to suggest that her ribs have been remotely damaged at all this evening. She sits up, looking at Loki in confusion. He looks blankly back at her.

"What?"

"It's…_healed_."

"Well yes," Loki says obviously. "That's why they're called _healing stones_. Come here, let me fix your head."

She feels stupid for saying it, but she hadn't anticipated a full recovery in less than a minute. She can accept daggers materialising from hair clips and rainbow bridges and magic glass, but that level of healing? No wonder they're immortal. She shuffles closer to Loki and he crumbles a stone in one hand, then with the fingers of his other, dabs the grit into her head wound. The heat seeps into her again, but she doesn't close her eyes this time, instead watching Loki's concentrated gaze, his eyebrows contorted in a slight frown, his mouth ajar, his hands steady. When he catches her staring, she refuses to look away, too proud to let him think that she didn't want him to notice. His lips curve into a smile and he looks down at the last of the crumbly white powder in his hand, before applying the rest of it to her head.

"You see this?" Loki says to Thor, gesturing to Natasha's neck. "He should be executed for this."

"But why would he attack?" Thor asks, his voice cracking. He swallows and runs a hand through his hair before quickly adding, "Not that I doubt that he _did_. I just don't understand his motive."

"Frejir doesn't _need_ a motive. He's even worse than _you _when it comes to warmongering."

Thor sighs and rubs his face tiredly. "But why would he come down here? For Natasha?"

"Because he loathes the idea that one mortal woman can do the job of two Asgardian men. I think he wanted to _put her in her place_." Loki says the last few words with his nose scrunched in distaste. He crumbles up another stone and starts to apply the remnants to Natasha's throat, the warmth of it leaving her feeling slightly nauseated.

"And you put him in his?" Thor asks with a hint of a smile, his eyes on Natasha.

"Naturally," she croaks.

"She wouldn't have _had to_ if you'd put the chains on the door, like you _should have_," Loki adds, shooting a glare towards him. "Or if you'd gotten here _sooner_. Honestly, if I'd _escaped_ that would have given me more than enough time to get out of Asgard _entirely_."

Thor's smile vanishes at this and he lets out a sigh, before pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on top of them.

"I'm sorry," he says after moment. "It's all my fault."

"Yes," Loki says, "It is."

"No it's _not_," Natasha says exasperatedly. "Nobody except that _asshole_ is to blame."

"Exactly," Loki says briskly, brushing the last dusty remains of the healing stones from his hands. "Like I said, all Thor's fault."

Natasha gives him a look and he grins mischievously, his anger having dissipated. Natasha turns to look at Thor, who seems to be wrestling with the desire to laugh, his eyes a little brighter than usual as he looks at Loki.

Loki sighs and looks out to the mess in the dungeon, Natasha following his gaze. It looks like a bomb's hit it, and it'll take a good deal of cleaning up. She wonders if they'll move Loki to a different dungeon, what with this one not even having a door anymore. But maybe they'll fix the dungeon as quickly as Loki fixed her injuries. She rubs her neck absentmindedly, and Loki looks down at her, frowning and chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"What?" she asks.

"I can't believe he broke my Etch-a-Sketch."

Natasha rolls her eyes and turns away from him, but when she feels one of his hands come to rest on her shoulder, she realises he's just trying take her mind off of her injuries. Her stomach squirms at this idea, of Loki being _kind_, but ever since she's been assigned as his babysitter, he's been full of pleasant surprises. He's not cardboard cut-out psycho-villain she'd envisaged. She'd always known he was intelligent, but she's known a lot of intelligent villains and they've all been pretty much the same – bitter, twisted, control freaks. Loki's different, or perhaps he's just different _now_.

When she sees Thor staring at the two of them, a wide, hopeful smile on his face, her stomach drops, and she resigns herself to the fact that things are about to get a lot more complicated.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Yay! New chapter. Huzzah, etc. Hope you like it, let me know what you think!

* * *

**Turn**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

The snow is falling thickly outside, the high winds sending the chunky flakes spiralling past the window. Natasha sits down on the sofa, bowl of cereal in one hand, blanket wrapped tightly around her. She turns on the TV and spends the next ten minutes channel hopping while she eats her cereal, internally cursing her apartment layout – the large, high ceilinged rooms mean that the small, inadequate heaters struggle to raise the temperature by a single degree. It's fine in the summer, beautifully cool, but last winter she swore she'd move, and somehow, this winter, she's still here. She supposes she had a busy summer, with alien invasions but even so, she bitterly regrets her lack of action now. She's not sure she can make it through another winter like this, not without losing her mind.

The light overhead flickers, and she stops, mid-chew, and looks up to the ceiling. She places her bowl on the coffee table and gets up, heading quickly into the kitchen and rooting around in the cupboard under the sink to find candles. Just as her hand closes around a couple of long, waxy cylinders, the lights give one final, half-hearted flicker, then blink out. Natasha sighs, pulls out the candles, then feels her way over to the other side of the kitchen, opening a drawer and seeking a lighter. After much rummaging, she finds one, lights the candles, and pads back into the lounge. She heads over to the window to check on the rest of the city, just to make sure it's not a fuse blowing in her apartment, but as she suspects, the entire block is cloaked in darkness.

Her text alert sounds, and she heads back to the sofa to check her phone. It's Clint.

_You lost power too?_

She types back a quick response.

_Yep. All out over here._

She waits a few moments, and then her phone vibrates in her palm.

_You need anything? All stocked up over here._

She responds with a polite no, tells him she's fine and just tags on the end that she's going to Asgard in the morning so won't have to worry. She gets a rather chilly 'okay' in response, and hears no more from Clint for the rest of the night. Just as she's about to go to bed however, her phone vibrates again, but this time it's Tony, apparently having sent out a mass message.

_Hey kids, as you've probably guessed, we're the only people in the city with power right now. The Stark hotel is open for business, rooms are charged at a rate of one beer per night, and may be settled at a later date. Be safe. _

Natasha smiles, types out a quick response, telling Tony she's on babysitting duty from the morning and not to worry about her. Then, she switches off her phone to preserve the battery, picks up the candles and goes to her room, huddling herself up in her duvet and trying to get herself comfortable, before she blows out the candles and goes to sleep.

Just as she's about to nod off, she wonders how long the power will be out for, whether it'll still be gone when she gets back, and how much tinned food she can actually put up with. She thinks of the platters on Asgard with an ache in her belly, and wonders if Thor wants Loki off of his hands for more than a few hours, this time.

* * *

"You look cosy." His first words of the day to her are laced with amusement, and Natasha stomps the snow off of her boots, unravels her seemingly never-ending scarf, removes her mittens, and shrugs off her jacket, placing it on the back of the new, slightly comfier looking wooden chair by Loki's cell.

"Snow storm," she mutters, rubbing her hands together to try and get some feeling back into them. It doesn't take long; even in the dungeons it's fairly warm, but she's felt like a block of ice since the previous night, despite her piles upon piles of blankets. It's been a long, long while since she's been so cold, and she doesn't have much regard for the memories it brings about.

"You have luggage," he comments, his eyes dropping to the bag by her feet. "Or a rather large gift."

"No gifts," she says, straightening her top and smoothing it down, before looking up at him. "Stores are closed. I got nothing. And yeah, it's luggage. I'm staying for a few days."

"Because of the snow?" he asks mockingly, though the corners of his mouth have turned slightly upwards at the news, and she knows that he's secretly pleased.

"Because of the _power cut_," Natasha informs him, stepping through the glass with a shudder. "No power, no heat, no nothing." She sits down next to him, still a little chilly, goosebumps scattered over her skin. She can feel his eyes on her, but when she turns to look at him, he's facing the other way, one of his long arms reaching across for a tired looking patchwork blanket.

"Here," he says, passing it to her. She takes it, leaning forward to wrap it around herself and bundling it up around her arms, before returning to her original position.

"Thanks," she says with a smile. She still gets surprised by small acts of kindness from him, as it's so averse to everything she's used to coming from him, and yet, he was the one who healed her on her last visit, who had her wellbeing as a priority over everything else. It's probably about time she got used to it.

"I'll want it back tonight," he tells her. So much for the small acts of kindness.

"Yeah, yeah," she says. "I know."

"How long are you staying for?" he asks, lacing his fingers and stretching them outwards, his voice laden with forced casualness.

"A few days…" she extends her legs in front of her and tries to rub some warmth into her thighs. "I dunno, not sure how long we'll be without power. Thor didn't mind when I asked though…"

"Of course he didn't mind. Anything for him to get out of here."

Natasha frowns. "What do you mean?" she asks.

Loki sighs dramatically, casting his eyes up towards the ceiling as though about to tell a long and tiresome story. "Ever since the debacle with the guards, he's been guarding me himself. He's decided that _none _of the guards can be trusted, not just that moron, Frejir."

"What happened to him?" Natasha asks softly, a pool of dread in her stomach. She really doesn't want another nasty blot on her landscape, not even if it was in self-defence.

"He was flogged," Loki says, his eyebrows dropping forward into a scowl. "A hundred lashes, not nearly a severe enough punishment, but he _does_ have to live with the humiliation of everybody knowing that he attacked a woman and lost."

"That's worse for someone like him though," Natasha adds, secretly relieved that he's still alive. She hasn't taken a life since the attack on New York, and she hopes that she won't have to again any time soon. She has no qualms about taking a life on orders, because that's somebody else's body count she's adding to, but when it comes to her own, she's keen to avoid any increase.

"He walks free," he says bitterly. "He walks free and yet I'm stuck in here."

"Yeah, I'm gonna say it again, you tried to _invade a planet_. That's nearly seven billion people whose lives you put at risk. That's a pretty major faux pas."

Loki smirks. "Just because I have more _style_ than Frejir…"

Natasha rolls her eyes and decides to turn the conversation back to Thor, knowing full well it could result in a day of childish huffing and puffing should she overstep the mark.

"So Thor's been guarding you himself?" she asks.

"Yes," Loki replies. "Three times a day for a few hours at a time. He leaves me to my own devices otherwise."

"Well that must be better, mustn't it?" Natasha asks, but Loki makes a derisory sound. "What?"

"Better? You must be joking. He keeps trying to _talk to me_."

"Oh wow, what a bastard," Natasha says with a roll of her eyes. "Imagine your own brother trying to talk to you."

For a moment she thinks she's done it. She feels Loki stiffen next to her, inhale sharply, and from the corner of her eye sees his jaw jut forward slightly, often a good indicator of an oncoming sulk.

"You don't understand. He tries to make me eat with him, like you and I do, and he doesn't understand why I won't. It's always _Natasha this_ and _Natasha that_ and I'm _sick of it_. If I didn't know better I'd say he was in _love_ with you." He says the last bit with a disgusted curl of his lip, and Natasha simply smiles. It's so easy to forget that Loki's thousands of years old, when he acts like a teenager who's been told they can't go to a rock concert because they were caught smoking pot in the garage. She doesn't point this out to him, because she knows she's pushed enough buttons for now, and so she lets it all slide.

"You wanna play cards?" she asks.

Loki pushes himself to his feet and crosses the cell to take his deck of cards from the table. In the corner behind it, Natasha spots a pile of half a dozen books that she knows weren't there last time.

"Who brought you those?" she asks, ninety percent sure that she knows the answer already.

"Thor," Loki says darkly.

"Have you been reading them?"

"Only when he tries to talk to me. He stops sooner if he's talking to the cover of a book."

"Oh my God…" she says quietly. "You guys…"

Loki ignores her and starts to deal out the cards, seven each, and then sets the deck between them. The first game goes Natasha's way fairly quickly, but Loki takes the second and third, his mood improving with each and every win. By the time lunch arrives, he's come out on top in nearly half of the games, and is reluctant to set the cards aside when Natasha brings in the tray of food. When she insists, however, he slides them to one side and makes room for her to set the tray down, sitting up straight, ready to eat.

The stew that the cooks have sent down warms her from the inside out, leaving her smiling happily. Loki eats slowly but steadily, helping himself to more regularly. He looks far healthier than when she first started visiting; his eyes are less sunken than before, and although he's still very, very lean, there's noticeably more meat on his bones. His face even looks a little fuller, though he's still constructed from sharp angles and strong cheek bones. She can't see the outline of his ribs through his shirt though, and that, to her, is the most important thing.

When they hear the rattle of the chains from the other side of the door, Natasha turns, and Loki sighs heavily, setting down his fork and leaning back against the wall.

"It's Thor…" he tells her. "He's the only one with a key."

Natasha waits until he steps into the room, all cheerful smiles and thick blond hair before she relaxes. She's perfectly safe in the cell, she knows, but she doesn't really fancy a repeat of her last visit. A little caution never hurt anybody, after all.

"How are we?" Thor asks, striding towards the glass and stepping through it. Loki puts his plate down noisily and folds his arms, not responding.

"Good," Natasha says, putting her own plate to one side and twisting to face Thor. "This is delicious by the way," she adds, indicating the stew and Thor grins.

"I thought you might appreciate it," he says, taking a seat on the floor with them. "You looked frozen when you arrived! No wonder you wanted to stay. How does Midgard cope when your mortal magic fails?"

"It's called _electricity_," Loki says impatiently. "It's not magic."

"He can't resist speaking if it's to correct me," Thor says in a pretend whisper. Natasha smirks, which only deepens Loki's scowl, and Thor chuckles heartily. "Oh don't be so sour, brother! You know it to be true!"

"Or perhaps you're just wrong far more often than you're right," Loki mutters. "You know, I _was_ under the impression that this is _my _cell. Is that still the case? Or does this space now cater for three?"

"If you want me to go…" Natasha begins.

"Not _you_," Loki snaps. "They have a saying on Midgard, _brother_. Two's company, three's a crowd."

"Yeah, and four's a party," Natasha adds, giving him a reproachful look. "Just chill out, it's not like he's moving in with you."

"It certainly _feels _like he is. He was never this interested in spending time with me _before _you arrived."

"You wouldn't even entertain the idea before Natasha arrived. You're far more amiable since you've had her companionship."

Natasha laughs. "Really? _This_ is amiable?"

Loki shoots a dirty look at her but Thor laughs. "For Loki, yes it is."

"I'm finished eating," Loki says coolly. "Take it away."

"I'm not finished," Natasha says firmly, picking up her plate, spiking a lump of beef with the prongs of her fork and putting it into her mouth, chewing slowly, pointedly, as Loki watches her. He glances over to Thor, just a split second look, but Natasha catches it, and knows exactly what he's getting at. Thor will probably leave once they've finished eating. He only wants to check in to make sure Loki _is _eating, probably wants to see what his brother is like when he's as close to content as it's possible for him to be in the cell. She also knows that the jibe about Loki's sourness being as close to amiable as he's liable to get hit a nerve. Natasha obviously has no idea what the previous couple of thousand years were like for Loki, but she knows that his downfall has only come in the last twelve months, at the very most. She's sure he wasn't like this towards Thor before then, would put money on it. If he had been, then there's no way that Thor would have tried to pull him back from the brink in New York, no way he would be so protective over him, and no way that he would try to save him again and again and again and again.

"I'm sure you'll find your quarters most comfortable," Thor says, breaking the silence. "I've had you placed in the rooms next to mine. You won't have anybody disturb you there."

He meets her eye and Natasha catches his drift. Frejir is still walking about Asgard, and she imagines that should he get wind of her staying in the palace, he probably wouldn't think twice about trying to kill her in her sleep.

"_My rooms_ are next to yours," Loki says indignantly. "What are you playing at?"

Natasha feels her heart slide down in her chest. The last thing she needs is for her staying here to be yet another source of contention between the two brothers. She's about to say that she really doesn't mind where she sleeps, that's she'll quite happily make herself comfortable in the dungeon with a sleeping bag and a few pillows, but Thor speaks first.

"Brother, you claim you have no family, no place in this realm, and yet to lay claim to the living quarters you haven't touched in months?"

"There are _guest quarters_," Loki hisses. "For this _exact_ purpose."

"Yes," Thor replies through gritted teeth. "And the _guest quarters_ are guarded, and guess who they're guarded _by_."

"Frejir should have been executed! And any of his friends, Meinholf included should have been banished from the palace! Instead it's me that's making the sacrifice _again_."

"You're far too dramatic," Thor shoots back. "It's hardly a sacrifice. You get Natasha here for days at a time, and you won't let her sleep in the bed you haven't laid in since last winter!"

"It's not a question of her sleeping in my bed, it's a question of you thinking that that's _your_ decision to make!"

Loki's trembling now, and Natasha looks down at her plate, no longer feeling the love for her now lukewarm stew. While she can understand why Loki's upset, she does get the feeling that he'd rather turn anything into an argument with Thor, as opposed to having a conversation, or even just _accepting_ it. He's already admitted he has no issue with her staying in his quarters, just in the manner that it was decided. She's sure that if it had been his mother who had offered up his quarters for Natasha's use, he wouldn't have batted an eyelid.

"It's where I felt she would be most comfortable," Thor says slowly, clenching and unclenching his fist, obviously trying to keep a hold on his temper. "And _safe_. So do you want her to stay there tonight, or would you prefer she stays somewhere else? I will quite happily give her _my _quarters for her stay, if _that's_ what you want?"

Loki's eyes flash. "Don't be ridiculous," he snaps. "Like she'd want to sleep in _your _bed. And what would your precious _Jane_ think?"

"I wonder, what would Jane think of me giving up my bed to ensure that a friend sleeps comfortably and safely during her visit to our world?" Thor muses, an unusual hint of sarcasm to his tone. "I don't imagine she'd ever forgive me, do you?"

"Loki," Natasha says softly. "Where do you want me to sleep? You choose. And this stops now or I'm gonna be sleeping at Stark's place tonight."

Loki pouts, picking at a small hole near the hem of his shirt and considers his answer. "Why Stark's place?"

"He still has power," Natasha answers. "The arc reactor. He's self-sufficient."

"So why aren't you there anyway?"

"Because the food's better here."

Loki looks back down at the hole in his shirt, only making it worse when he pokes his little finger through it.

"And I think my time is spent more productively when I'm with you, than if I'm hanging around Stark tower trying not to drown in the testosterone."

His lips twitch into what Natasha is sure is almost a smile, and then, after a moment he says quietly, "Stay in my quarters. Make yourself at home. Don't let Thor mess anything up."

Thor opens his mouth, about to retort, but Natasha gives him a look and he chooses to keep quiet.

"Thank you," Natasha says. "I appreciate it."

Drama over, and blood pressures returning to normal, Thor soon departs, taking the dinner tray with him and promising he'll visit later on (much to Loki's displeasure). They're quiet for a while, and Natasha considers having another one of _those_ conversations with him, the kind that she knows he hates, and when he picks up the cards to deal out another round of gin, she stops him, her hand on top of his.

"You didn't need to get upset like that," she says calmly. "I get it, I understand it's the principle of it. But he knew you would never begrudge me a safe place to sleep. It's not that he didn't consider how you'd feel, it's that he considered, and then knew you wouldn't mind. It's not the same thing."

"He didn't say that you could have _my _quarters though," Loki replies quietly, his thumb sliding the top card of the deck up and down absentmindedly. "He said you could have the quarters next to his, like they're not even mine anymore, like _this_ is where I live now."

"Maybe he didn't want to draw attention to them being your quarters," Natasha says with a shrug. "Maybe he thought _I'd_ mind sleeping in your quarters."

"Well if it's a choice between that and Stark tower -"

"I know, right?" Natasha says with a small smile. She releases his hand and he gives the cards a shuffle before dealing them out. "Just…try and chill out. Not everything Thor does is meant to be an insult to you."

Loki ignores the last comment and takes up his hand, rearranging the cards accordingly, and after watching him for a moment, Natasha picks up her own one, sighing inwardly when she sees the dire hand of nothing she's been landed with. She makes a note to teach him a new game, perhaps tomorrow, because he seems to be fairly content with winning at gin, and she's not sure she wants to spoil that.

* * *

The rooms are stupidly large. Actually _stupidly_ large. The furniture is scattered to distant corners – an armchair here, a bookcase there, all much bigger than necessary just so they aren't dwarfed by the gargantuan room. There is a fire roaring in the grate, giving the room a warm, flickering, orange glow.

"I think you'll be quite comfortable here," Thor says, looking around and nodding. "The sleeping quarters are back here…" He heads towards the far side of the room and Natasha follows. He pushes open the tall double doors and inside is a slightly smaller room, the main focal point a gigantic four poster bed with dark green hangings and bed linen.

"Yeah, I think I'll cope," she says, her eyes wide as she takes it in.

"Dressing room," Thor says vaguely, waving to the right, where Natasha can see a narrow corridor leading to a room beyond. "You can leave your luggage in there, Loki won't mind. Bathroom," he gestures straight ahead to the door on the far side. "And, should you need anything…"

He heads to the wall on the left, stopping just in front of the fireplace. Natasha skews her lips to the side curiously, joining him in front of the hearth.

"Just shout up the chimney?" Natasha asks, laughing a little.

Thor doesn't hear her apparently, because he is frowning at the mantelpiece, his eyes searching the carved wood. He strokes his chin with his thumb and index finger, his eyes narrowed, until finally, he reaches out and presses his thumb against a knot in the wood. There is a lurch, and Natasha stumbles, but Thor grabs her by the upper arm, steadying her, as they start to revolve.

"What the -"

The fireplace rotates, the bedroom disappearing to be replaced with a narrow, dimly lit corridor.

"This is like something out of a cartoon…"

Thor chuckles. "I wouldn't know about that," he says. "But this is Loki's magic. One of the first real pieces of magic he did when we were boys. The corridor leads directly to my sleeping quarters – only Loki knows of its existence."

"That's pretty cool I guess," Natasha concedes. "Anything happens, fireplace. Got it."

"I don't imagine you'll need it," he adds, pressing the wooden knot again. "But just in case."

Natasha nods, and as the fireplace takes them back round to Loki's room, she feels a blast of fresh air hit her, the mustiness of the unused corridor disappearing in an instant.

"I think that's all," Thor says. "I can have breakfast sent here for you or you can have it with Loki…he doesn't really eat breakfast."

"He'll eat breakfast tomorrow," Natasha says.

Thor smiles, but something shifts in his eyes. They cloud over and he looks down at the floor, somehow looking impossibly small. "How do you do it?" he asks. "How do you get him to eat? He _wants_ to eat, we know, but he just won't take it from me. Or anyone. _Except you_."

"He's always going to find fault with everything you do. He's looking for it, and if you're looking for it, you can usually find it."

"I've been looking for my brother for a long time," Thor says softly, still gazing down at the floor. "And I still can't find him."

"Oh come on," Natasha replies, giving his shoulder what she hopes is a comforting pat. "He's there. He's just a little…you know."

"But how do we get him back?"

"You _don't_. Stop clinging on to who he was and accept him for who he is _now_." She really doesn't know how this can be such a difficult concept to understand. Thor and Loki are thousands of years old, surely they've been through changes before? Surely they've had to learn to adapt to one another as they got older, changed their ways, and evolved?

"Accept the murder? The betrayal?" Thor looks up at her, his eyebrows knitted together in a frown.

"You already _have_ accepted that," Natasha tells him. "If you hadn't, we wouldn't be having this conversation. What's done is done and he's different because of it, whether you like it or not. He's damaged, you know he is. You have to tread carefully around that, even if it _is_ frustrating."

"My brother is not _damaged_," Thor says harshly. "There is nothing wrong with him."

"It's not an insult," Natasha murmurs. "It's the truth. What he went through…it changed him. It changed all of us. But he's probably still dealing with that, and at the same time he's got you, wishing you could turn back time and have him back how he was before. Do you have any idea what he would give to go back to that?"

"What has he said to you?"

"Nothing," Natasha answers, "But that's the point. He _won't_ say it because he's too proud, and he's too stubborn as well because that's what _you_ want. And what _you _want is automatically not what _he wants_ because of this friction between the two of you. He'll pick at anything he can to try and start a fight, to push you away, because he hates all these expectations you have."

"So you're saying I should give up? That he'll respond better if I just leave him there to rot?"

Natasha rolls her eyes and wonders if dramatic, rash, non-solutions run in the family. "No," she says obviously. "I'm saying just let him be what he wants. If you take him food, don't stand there and wait for him to eat it, just take him some food, say hi and then leave him alone. Don't even _mention_ the food. If you wanna try and talk you can always come back when he's not eating. You're very much his jailer at the moment. You decide when and what he eats, when he has to talk to you, when he can go outside…you need to break away from that."

Thor stays silent for a moment, digesting Natasha words, his fists clenching and unclenching. She's noticed that a couple of times now, and she wonders if it's his default coping mechanism. She can see his biceps twitching with every movement, his forearms tightening and then relaxing, his metal cuffs glinting in the fire light.

"But if I do that, he might think that I don't care," he says quietly. "And I can't let that happen."

"He _knows_ that you care," Natasha says. "_Everybody_ knows that you care. You just have to learn how to handle him. Shrug it off if he has a tantrum, leave him to it. If he says horrible things, walk away, why should you have to listen to that? Just stop clinging to this notion that you can make him better if you can make him feel like somebody cares. It's not going to work. Only he can make himself better, nobody else."

"You seem to be doing a much better job than I was," Thor replies, a hint of bitterness to his tone. Natasha frowns. She doesn't really consider messing around with a deck of cards to be a pit stop on the road to recovery, but what she does know is that if he's pleasant enough to hang out with, she'll hang out with him. If he's not, then she won't. It's all down to him and his behaviour. He controls what's going to happen by the way he treats her. It's _not_ the other way around, and when she explains this to Thor, he brightens, seemingly understanding the idea. Perhaps his good mood is down to the fact that Loki's malice isn't nearly as personal as he previously thought – that Natasha is no more in favour than he is, she's just looking at things from the other side.

He decides to take the secret fireplace corridor back to his own rooms, for old time's sake, and it's with a spring in his step that he heads towards the hearth. When Thor has disappeared behind the wall, the fireplace makes a full rotation back around, and Natasha looks over to the bed, a smile spreading on her face.

Not even five minutes later, she's tucked up warm under the bedclothes, the pillows soft and cloud-like beneath her head. She inhales deeply, a soft, vaguely familiar aroma evoking a contented sigh from her lungs. Her last thought before she drops off to sleep is how much better off she is here, on another planet, than she would be at the madness and inevitable drinking games of Stark tower.

* * *

Thor unlocks the chains and unwinds them from the door handles quietly. Natasha catches his eye and he gives her a meaningful look as he gently sets the chains down and turns the door handle, wincing when the metal creaks lightly. Upon entering the dungeon, Thor noiselessly relights the torch brackets, which have long since faded to glowing embers throughout the night, and Natasha approaches the glass.

Loki is lying on his side, curled up under the blanket he'd loaned Natasha the previous day. His head is resting on his upper arm, his chest rising and falling softly. At first, Natasha thinks he looks peaceful, but then she sees a muscle twitch, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown. He shifts, pulling the blanket up over his head as though shielding himself, his fist clenched around the corner of the blanket, knuckles burning white under the already pale skin.

She steps through the glass without a moment's hesitation, takes three long strides across the cell and drops to her knees, placing her hand on his shoulder and shaking him awake firmly. His eyes snap open and he sits bolt upright with a start, pushing himself instinctively away from her, a sharp intake of breath catching in his throat.

"It's just me," Natasha whispers, so Thor can't hear. He's busy enough with the torch brackets not to have noticed Loki's nightmare, and she's guessing Loki would prefer for it to stay that way. She clasps her hand around his and stills the shaking. He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against the heel of his palm, one knee pulled up to his chest. He takes a few steadying breaths and Natasha keeps a hold on him, anchoring him to the reality of the cell.

There's a loud clatter, and Loki flinches, opening his eyes quickly, his gaze darting around to find the source.

"It's just breakfast," Natasha tells him, running her thumb back and forth across the underside of his wrist, occasionally catching a hint of his rapid pulse. "Don't worry."

Thor enters the cell, and Natasha releases Loki's wrist, twisting to face Thor. He's brought the breakfast tray with him, and it's laden with all sorts of delicious looking food. He puts it on the table next to the water jug, not even mentioning it, and then frowns at Loki.

"What's the matter? Are you ill?"

"No," Loki says quietly. "I'm fine."

"I just startled him," Natasha says quickly. "When I woke him."

"Well you should have let him sleep," Thor says, his frown deepening. "Breakfast can always wait. And if you wanted to dine now we could have more food sent down later for him."

"It's fine," Loki says, straightening his sitting position a little and making himself comfortable. "_I'm_ fine. It's all...fine."

"Did you want to go out today?" Thor asks. Loki looks up at him, his eyes narrowed as he considers him.

"No," he says after a pause. "I don't."

Thor opens his mouth, but before he can try and convince Loki otherwise, Natasha catches his eye and gives him a look.

"Very well," Thor says, straightening his shoulders and nodding. "If you change your mind we can always go out this afternoon, perhaps head up into the woods again, if you'd like."

Loki's gaze falls on Natasha now, scrutinising and calculating. She can feel him watching her every move, her skin prickling slightly as she tries to pretend that she hasn't noticed.

"We'll see you later on," Natasha says to Thor with a small smile.

Thor bids them farewell and leaves the dungeon, the chains rattling into place from the other side of the door after he closes it. As always, Loki waits until Thor is well out of earshot before speaking, and it's not until Natasha has set the tray between them and started buttering a still-warm crusty roll that he makes a sound.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah," Natasha answers. "Best night I've had in ages. Your bed's really -" She stops herself, realising how insensitive she's being. After his mini tantrum yesterday over Thor deciding it would be fine for her to sleep there, she highly doubts that reminding him of the comfort he's missing will do him any good.

"Really _what_?"

"Comfortable..." Natasha says slowly with a guilty grimace. "Sorry, I didn't mean to -"

"It's fine," Loki says stiffly, tearing off a piece of his own roll with slightly more force than necessary.

Natasha bites her lip and watches him for a moment, but he doesn't look at her. He keeps his attention focused on breakfast, and after he finishes his roll, he sinks his teeth into a shiny red apple, juice collecting on the waxy skin as he chews.

"What's up?"

"Nothing," Loki says, taking another bite of his apple. He still doesn't look at her, and Natasha knows it's something other than the fact that she slept in his room. It's not bed-envy he's suffering from, but something else, something that runs a little deeper.

"Is it the nightmare?"

"_No_."

"I had them too," she says softly. "Still do sometimes. Not often, but occasionally. They get less frequent...the more you learn to cope."

"It's _not that_. And it wasn't a _nightmare._" He takes one last bite of his apple then throws the half eaten remains down onto his plate. Somehow, he manages to look everywhere in the room except at her, and she doesn't quite get it. If it's not the nightmare, and it's not the fact that she slept in his bed then -

"Couldn't you have just gone to Thor's room? I mean really, did you need to insult me _that much_?"

"You said you didn't mind!"

"I didn't mind _you_ sleeping in there!" he retorts, angry red blotches marring his normally milky complexion. "But I _do_ object to him using _my bed_ for his disgusting, inadequate, grunting exploits!"

Natasha nearly chokes on her roll. She gulps down the lump of bread in her throat with some difficulty and gapes at Loki. "_What_?"

"Don't even try and play stupid with me. I _know_ he didn't leave last night. The two of you went into my room last night and you didn't leave until this morning!"

Natasha frowns, trying to think of what possible evidence could have brought him to that conclusion. Surely not a trouble stirring guard spreading rumours – the chains were on the dungeon door all night. She chews on the inside of her cheek, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown, then, deciding she has no answer, looks up at Loki with a shrug.

"Again, _what_?"

"There is magic on that door. I might be without my powers now, but my old enchantments still remain. Thor entered my quarters with you last night, and left with you this morning. _Don't_ try to tell me otherwise." He folds his arms, his expression haughtier than ever. Were he not so obviously upset by the whole thing, Natasha would laugh. "And I don't appreciate having my brother's used up seconds hanging around. Get out."

Natasha doesn't move.

"Get _out_."

"Guess you didn't put one of your special super-duper enchantments on the secret fireplace hidey-hole, did you?" she says airily, meeting his hard glare with a casual gaze.

Loki blinks. "_What_?"

"Thor took me to your quarters last night," she says slowly. "And then went to his own via the corridor behind the fireplace." She watches as Loki's expression gradually melts into one of shock, his scowl fading away. "And then this morning," she continues, her voice light and airy, "Thor came down the fireplace corridor again and woke me at the crack of dawn, because he thought you'd have a better day if you had company from the get go."

He has the good grace to look a little embarrassed, the redness fading from his cheeks to be replaced by an ashy grey colour.

"But if you want his _used up seconds_ to get out then I'll quite happily head back to Earth and not come back."

Loki taps his fingers against his thighs, his eyes focused on his lap.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. Natasha can't believe what she's hearing. She knows better than to make a big deal out of it, but she can't help the look of surprise that forms on her face at the sound of his words.

"It's okay," she replies, the shock fading.

"I just assumed…"

"I think you do that a lot…" she says. "And I think that might be the root of a hell of a lot of your problems."

He doesn't have anything to say to that, and so Natasha lets him wallow in the silence for a few minutes, before nudging the breakfast tray towards him. It's the only encouragement he needs to continue eating, and they don't speak for the rest of the meal. After she's taken the tray outside and placed it back in the dumb waiter, she settles down next to him, back against the wall, legs crossed.

"So I have a question," she says, breaking the silence at last.

Loki turns his head to look at her, his exasperated expression making it clear that he's expecting something that will inevitably poke fun at him.

"How d'you know he's inadequate?"

She expects a small chuckle, something to break the tension, but he turns a faint shade of green and stares ahead at the glass.

"The walls aren't as thick as you imagine," he says hoarsely. "It's painfully obvious when a woman's faking it for a prince. They put on more of a show…"

Natasha crinkles her nose in disgust, wishing she'd never asked. "That's…kinda gross."

"Yeah," Loki says, blinking and leaning to his left so he can reach the deck of cards. He opens the pack, and begins to shuffle them. "Gin?" he asks.

Natasha shakes her head and holds out her hand for the cards. He gives them to her, his expression dismayed as though he thinks she might be confiscating them in retaliation for his accusations.

"I'm sick of gin," she says, shuffling the deck thoroughly. "I'm gonna teach you how to play poker."

The soft curve of his lips as he relaxes, his mood lifting, causes a sense of contentment to spread through Natasha. She's not sure why, but every time he responds positively, every time he's well behaved or _happy_, she treats it as a personal victory. She's not sure how well she'll fare against the god of mischief in a game based on bluffing and deception, but she's happy in the knowledge that once he's gotten the hang of it, he'll be a far more challenging opponent than the terminally honest Steve.

"What are the stakes?" Loki asks, his smile spreading into a grin.

"If I win, you have to read a book about poker technique which I'll bring on my next visit." Natasha thinks this can only be good for him, giving him something to focus on when she's not around, and even better, she won't be drowning in a mountain of chips after two minutes like she normally is, if he actually puts some effort into it.

"And if I win?"

"Then I'll bring you a book about poker technique when I next visit, you can read that, and then really kick my ass next time."

Loki smirks but says no more, and Natasha begins to deal.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **New chapter time. And also bed time, for me. Let me know what you guys think. I love hearing from you. :)

* * *

**Turn**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"That's ridiculous, I _clearly_ have the better hand."

"No you _don't_," Natasha argues. "My two pair beats your two pair because _my_ highest pair is higher than _your_ highest pair. Those are the rules!"

"I think you're making it up as you go along," Loki says bitterly, throwing his cards down. "What's the point of having two pairs if you disregard the second?"

"Because two pairs beats one pair," Natasha says obviously, pulling her winnings towards her with a smug smile on her face. "If the first pair tie, _then_ you go to the second pair. You can't _add up_ pairs. That's insane."

Loki huffs, snatches up the cards and deals again, five cards each.

"I did think you had a slightly more impressive hand, from your bluffing," Natasha adds. "But then I remember that you're _always_ labouring under the delusion that everything about you is superior. Lucky for me, really."

He fixes her with a narrow glare, puts the deck down and picks up his hand. When Natasha takes hers, she purposefully nudges the huge pile of precious stones in front of her that Thor had brought for them to use instead of chips. Loki's yet to win a hand from perseverance and strategy, but he's had a couple of lucky deals, with a flush that saw him sweep a considerable pile of jewels towards him. He's bold, she'll give him that. He'll quite happily raise on a dud hand, but she's called his bluff a little too often for that to be a viable tactic going forwards.

"Are you not _done _yet?" Thor sighs, his head resting on the palm of his hand. Both Natasha and Loki look across to the other side of the cell, where Thor is sitting on the floor, tired, bored, and ready to go to bed.

"If you can't handle a late night, brother…" Loki begins, turning back to his cards, his expression melting into a smooth mask that's impossible for Natasha to read, at the moment.

"It's past midnight," Thor replies. "You've been playing for _hours_."

Natasha discards two of her cards and Loki deals another two out to her, his eyes fixed on her when she turns them over and adds them to her hand.

"You didn't have to stay," Loki says to Thor coolly, before ditching a single card and dealing himself a new one, his expression never changing. "You could have gone elsewhere. Natasha even offered to teach you how to play but you gave up far too soon."

"I have no _patience_ for that sort of thing," Thor sighs. "And I can't go, I need to escort Natasha back to her sleeping quarters."

"_My_ sleeping quarters," Loki says pointedly.

Natasha pushes all of her jewels into the centre. "Winner takes all?" she suggests. "And we can start from scratch in the morning?"

Loki doesn't even look at his hand, but gathers his own jewels and places them with Natasha's. She's taking a risk, but she's also tired and finds it difficult to care much anymore. Apart from that, Thor's getting impatient, and his impatience is only likely to rile Loki and cause arguments. She'd rather go without one of those before bed. They've been fairly civil since dinner, Loki only giving Natasha withering looks during Thor's brief foray into the world of poker. He hadn't even protested when she suggested that Thor join in. Yes, he had let out an exaggerated sigh at the idea, but he had not complained, not even when Natasha patiently explained the different winning hands to Thor for the third time. Loki hadn't managed to hide his grin when Thor had thrown his cards down in frustration and skulked away to the other side of the cell, where he's remained ever since.

"Confident?" Loki asks. Natasha's eyes drop to the index finger tapping against his knee, and she smirks. Loki looks down and his finger stills immediately, his own smirk fading at the edges.

"Well now I am," Natasha replies. She's got three of a kind, and normally wouldn't go all in with a hand like this, but the worst that'll happen is that Loki will finish the night on a win, won't twist her arm into playing any more games, and she can go to bed peacefully.

After a few moments of trying to gauge his hand from his blank expression, Natasha lays down her cards, and Loki, still holding his against his chest, leans forward to inspect them.

"Three tens," he says casually. "Not _bad _I suppose, but no match for a flush."

He lays down his cards, his smirk spreading to levels that she hadn't previously thought possible. And sure enough, he has a hand of spades. Natasha isn't surprised to lose, but she's surprised he's managed a flush. She wonders just how much luck was on his side with that one, or even whether there had been a little slight of hand when he was dealing. She chases those thoughts away, inwardly admonishing herself for being a bad loser, and smiles.

"Congratulations," she says, as he pulls all of the jewels together into a mound and drags them towards him, his long fingers catching any rogue escapees and rejoining them with the rest of the group.

"Thank you," he says civilly, picky up a shiny blue sapphire and tossing it into the air, catching it with one hand upon its descent. "I suppose the best man won."

Natasha bristles inwardly, but her poker face remains. She simply smiles, gathers up the cards, puts them back in the packet and stands, heading over to the table in the corner to place them there, ahead of the following day's inevitable tournament. "Goodnight," she says firmly. "Sleep tight."

"And you," he replies, trailing his index finger through his winnings, a blood red ruby tumbling down the edge of the pile and rolling a few feet across the floor. "Enjoy my bed." He finishes with a smirk and Natasha nudges a snoozing Thor, who wakes with a start, looking around.

"What happened?" he asks, his eyes bleary.

"I'm out," she says. "And it's bed time." She holds out a hand and Thor takes it, allowing her to haul him to his feet. It takes a moment for him to steady himself, but once he has, he bids goodnight to Loki, who rolls his eyes, then he and Natasha leave the cell for a few hours of much needed rest.

* * *

The next morning begins with breakfast. Acting on impulse, Natasha asks Thor to join them, the tray holding enough for at least half a dozen people. Thor looks warily towards Loki, who huffs noisily at the invitation, but doesn't argue. Slowly but surely, Natasha is determined to steer him towards a mindset where he knows that he can't have things his way all the time, and hopefully, he won't mind when it's things as simple as Thor joining them for meals or the occasional game of cards.

They eat in silence, which isn't surprising, and Natasha has no desire to try and force conversation between the two of them. They're eating together, and that's a miracle in itself. She's not going to push her luck too far. When they finish, Loki spends a while tapping his fingers against his knee, his scowl growing more and more pronounced with every passing second that Thor remains with them.

"How about a trip into the woods today?" Thor asks. "I think the fresh air will do you good."

Loki opens his mouth to protest, but Natasha cuts across him.

"I am _not_ playing poker all day long. I'd like to go outside."

Loki gives her a poisonous look and she shrugs, before he finally relents and sulkily says, "_Fine._ We'll go outside."

"Wonderful," Thor says. "I'll tell the cooks to prepare us some lunch to take with us. I have to go and see Father, but you've got your card games to be playing."

Loki's lip curls and Thor bids them a cheery goodbye, leaving the dungeon and securing the chains behind him. Natasha feels a sinking in her chest. Today is going to be trying, and she concentrates on how much warmth and good food there is in Asgard. She hasn't been in touch with the others, but she doesn't imagine that things will have returned to normal and settled down before tomorrow. Perhaps heading back home will seem like something of a holiday, but when she considers the excellent night's sleep she's had, she's not sure she'll be too keen to get back. That could all change today however. From the sounds of it, Thor's hoping for a merry trip out into nature with a _picnic _of all things. Apparently he's still clinging onto his childhood, and is perhaps hoping that by recreating trips of days gone by, Loki will suddenly lose all of his bitterness and hatred and will be fixed, becoming the child he once was.

Somehow though, she can't imagine that even as a child, Loki was one for skipping through fields with a basket of sandwiches looped on his arm. She sniggers at the thought, and Loki looks up at her, his expression haughty.

"Something _funny_?"

"Yeah," she says, trying to keep a straight face. "I'm gonna spend my day mediating on a picnic that has the potential to destroy a pretty huge amount of the universe."

"I'm not eating outside like an animal," he retorts. "Thor's even more stupid than I previously imagined if he thinks I'll do that."

"You ate chocolate last time," Natasha reasons, biting her lip to keep her laughter at bay. She knows it'll only sour his mood further, and that's the last thing she needs, even if the brothers do find cause for conflict in the most ridiculously simple things.

"Will there be chocolate this time?" Loki asks, tracing his index finger along the floor, his eyes following its progress, before he finally looks at Natasha, completely seriously.

"I don't think so," she says, but then she considers her options. Bribery is always an option. Every man has his price, and if Loki's price for being civil is a bar of chocolate, then that's something she can probably manage after she's been back to Earth. "I could bring you some chocolate next time if you like," she says slowly, watching him carefully, trying to gauge his reaction.

Loki narrows his eyes. "On what condition?"

"Am I that transparent?"

"_Yes_."

"Oh," Natasha says simply. "Well on the condition that you make this as painless for me as possible. I don't wanna be breaking up any forest fights between you guys. Just go, eat the food, try and enjoy the outside world a little, and then we'll come back, play cards, and I won't be pissed for the rest of the day."

"You want me to play _happy families_ with Thor for the sake of _chocolate_?"

"Pretty much," she says, then takes a deep breath before continuing. "Look, you've been doing really well these past few days, and I think it's time we stepped it up a little. I _know_ how difficult it is for you, biting your tongue and trying to stay sane when he's around, but I really think you can do this. And do it well. And if you do it well, I totally think you'll have earned a ton of chocolate for that."

Loki rolls his eyes, stands, and then goes to the collect the cards from the table in the corner. Natasha can see the cogs turning in his mind. The last thing he wants to do is be well behaved because somebody else wants him to, and yet, when that somebody else is _her_ and not Thor, it becomes more difficult to justify bad behaviour. She's asking him for a favour, and in return, he'll get chocolate. She's not operating a rewards scheme today, where eating gets him one gold star, and not punching Thor in the face gets him seven. She's asking him for her own sake, and she knows that that's the only reason why he hasn't banished her from his cell.

That, and he wants to play poker.

She lets him deal without pushing the issue further, and she divides the pile of precious stones and thick gold coins roughly in half, giving Loki the slightly bigger portion. It's a fairly simple way to sweeten him up, but she knows she'll make the difference back fairly soon.

"If you win, I'll behave, if I win, I do what I want," he says at last, putting the deck down and collecting his hand from the floor.

"No," Natasha says, before she's even seen her hand. "I don't want you to behave because you _have_ to after some stupid bet. I want you to behave because you're old enough to know how to behave. Just because you don't like him doesn't give you carte blanche to act like a child whenever he's around. It's you that comes off looking worse." She tosses a couple of emeralds into the middle, and Loki meets her bet, then raises her a ruby.

"You have no idea what he's like," Loki says dismissively. "If you were in my position -"

"Sometimes there are people in life who you just don't like. Personality clash, whatever. That is _not_ a good enough reason to land yourself in jail. Nor is it good reason to be an asshole to them. You just have to deal with it. That's part of being an adult and I can't believe I'm have to tell you this when you're like fifty times older than me."

"And the rest," Loki says, pondering over his hand then slowly discarding two cards.

"Looks can be deceiving," Natasha says quietly, frowning at her own hand. "I'm not asking you to pretend to be best friends with him. I'm just asking you to be civil. He's really trying. _Really _trying."

"Yes, I find him to be rather trying as well," Loki says smoothly, dealing one new card for Natasha and two for himself.

Natasha's lips twist into a smile and she picks up her card. It's the two of clubs, a complete dud, not what she wanted at all. But she holds the smile, chucks in a few sapphires and looks up to Loki.

"I fold," he says, setting his cards face down on the floor. Natasha tries not to grin too much as she pulls the pile of jewels towards her. He won't fall for the same trick more than a couple of times, especially not once he's more focused on the game and less focused on Thor. He's still tired as well, tiny, pale pieces of sleep grit clinging to his lower lashes, the lights in the cell still a little too bright for his pupils.

Natasha puts her hand face down on the floor too, once her jewels are in a nice neat pile next to her knee. Loki reaches forward to turn them over, but she slaps his hand away.

He scowls, withdrawing his hand quickly from her, and rubbing the back of it to ease the stinging. "What did you have?" he demands.

"I don't have to show you," she says brightly. "If you fold, I don't have to show you a damn thing. I can just take the money and run."

"But you might have had a terrible hand," he says, reaching forward again, clearly not having learned his lesson. Natasha grips him by the wrist and prevents him from getting anywhere near her cards.

"But that's the point," Natasha says. "You don't know, and I'm not about to let you know because you might use that to try and work out my strategies. The cards in your hand are like…ten percent of what matters. You can make people think you've got the worst hand in the world or you've got a royal flush, if they fold, they forfeit the right to know which it is."

Loki fixes her with a steely glare, and Natasha keeps a firm grip on his wrist, his pulse pumping steadily beneath her thumb. Then, from nowhere, his other hand speeds forward, attempting to snatch the cards, but Natasha's reflexes are well honed, and she grabs him before he even lays a finger on the topmost card. When she pulls his hand away, he rises to his knees swiftly, trying to use his height to steer his and Natasha's arms back down towards the cards, but Natasha holds him steady, her arms locked into place. He bites his lip, glancing down at the cards, then back at Natasha, calculating his next move. She tries to read him, just as she does when they're playing cards, but he gives nothing away in his expression, only that he's about to do _something_. When he raises her arms above her head, the split second before he throws his full weight at her gives her enough time to duck her head. He sends her tumbling backwards, but she embraces it, going for the full backwards roll and forcing him to the floor instead, her grip on his wrists unrelenting as she holds him down, all of her weight resting on his hips.

"You gotta remember," she says, a little breathless. "I play with boys a lot bigger and uglier than you everyday."

"I just want to know what -"

"You can't," she says. "End of story. That's life. I said no, and I mean _no_."

"But it's not fair," he says in a small voice, his eyebrows creasing in the middle.

Natasha can't believe what she's hearing. "You of all people should know that life _isn't _fair. Sometimes, you don't get what you want, and you can't force it, you can't _invade a planet_ to make a point, you just have to suck it up and _deal with it_. Are we clear?"

He relaxes slightly under her, and Natasha loosens her grip a little. Loki sucks his cheeks in, his lips pouting and he lets his gaze slide down her, starting at the top and making its way down to where their hips meet. He smirks, and Natasha rolls her eyes.

"You know, you could at least buy me a drink _first_, Agent Romanov."

Natasha raises an eyebrow and removes herself from him, shifting back to the pile of cards and collecting them up, including her mysterious dud hand of contention and shuffling them. Loki returns to his original position, his smirk still firmly in place and settles himself, back against the wall, his eyes on Natasha as she deals out the next hand.

* * *

"Do you want to go to the lake?"

Loki remains silent, trudging up towards the forest, the chain linking him to Natasha jangling between them. She nudges him gently and he takes a steadying breath before replying in a tight, strained voice, "Yes, why not?"

The answer seems to give Thor a renewed sense of purpose, and he doubles his speed, Loki stubbornly trying to keep up even though his body can't handle it. Ideally, he ought to be going out every day, but he's far too miserable for that, choosing to remain in his cell despite the opportunity to head outside. She knows Thor offers it to him even when she's not there, but, she supposes, the idea of being chained to Thor is just about enough to make Loki want to vomit, so it's hardly surprising that he refuses.

When they reach the clearing in the woods, the water glinting happily under the thin beams of sunlight that manage to break through the treetops, the three of them sit down, Natasha and Loki with their backs against a huge tree trunk, and Thor opposite them, unloading a selection of food from the sack he's brought with them. He pulls out three glass bottles and passes one to Natasha, one to Loki (who reluctantly accepts) and keeps one for himself.

"It's the finest ale we have to offer," Thor says cheerfully. "Loki used to love it, perhaps a little _too much_ on some occasions."

Loki stills next to her and Natasha ignores it, smiling at Thor, and pulling the cork out of the top of her bottle. After a moment, Loki's tension dissipates, and he removes his own cork, causing the chain to tug Natasha's arm towards him sharply.

"Sorry," he mumbles, not looking at her.

"It's okay," she says, taking a swig of her ale. It's strong, just like the wine, but it's slightly softer in its flavours, a pleasant, maltiness taking the edge off the sharpness of the alcohol. Thor opens up the packages of food and gestures for everybody to get started, waiting for Loki and Natasha to choose something before he helps himself. Natasha tries to keep her smile at bay as she tears a strip of flesh off of a roasted chicken leg and pops it into her mouth. He's trying so hard to not be too overpowering around Loki, just in small ways like letting him have first choice of the food, or asking if he wants to go to the lake instead of telling him they should go to the lake. He's considering each one of his actions before he makes them, something which she knows for Thor, is still a fairly alien concept. This new process of thinking before acting has left him rather more quiet, and bizarrely gentle. Natasha has never been intimidated by him before in the entire time she's known him, but the idea of him hurting somebody, even an enemy, in this state seems like it's impossible.

They eat in silence. Natasha catches Loki chewing slowly, and it soon becomes clear that he's very much wishing he was elsewhere. There is a slightly mechanical feel to his movements, all too regular and a little bit stiff, and it's because he's thinking of everything else except where he is and what he's doing; his body is on autopilot. She wonders what he's thinking about, and doesn't want to break his mood, because he is doing exactly as asked and behaving himself. The methods he chooses to employ in order to stay sane throughout this experience are not for her to question.

"How is Dr Banner?" Thor asks Natasha eventually, when he realises that Loki won't be joining them in conversation.

"He's good," Natasha replies, nodding as she swallows down the remnants of a bread roll. "He's doing a lot of research for SHIELD, is in control of his condition, it's all good."

"I'm glad," Thor says with a concerned frown. "He seemed a good man when I met him. And there are not many men who can match my strength." He smiles and helps himself to more food from the sack. "Loki, come, there's still lots to eat."

Loki blinks, and Natasha knows he's fallen back into reality with a slight bump. But, without question, he reaches out a hand and takes a small, round pie from one of the boxes. He bites into it and chews steadily, looking between Natasha and Thor as they watch him.

"What?" he says defensively. "I'm just eating."

"Is it good?" Natasha asks, gesturing to the pie. There are at least half a dozen in the box and she hasn't tried one yet, far too distracted by all the other things that Thor has laid out for them in this veritable feast. She'd love to have such good food available to order twenty four seven, and while Tony's pizza place does do a mean thin crust with barbecued chicken at the drop of a hat, this beats it a hundred times over.

"You'll like it," Loki says, after swallowing a mouthful. "They've sweetened the pork."

Natasha takes a pie, and as she brings it closer, she can smell the sweetness through the small skewer hole in the top. It's almost caramel like, and when she bites into the, pastry crumbles, the pork soft and tender, falling apart in her mouth. She closes her eyes and leans her head back against the tree trunk, enjoying the moment. She thinks fondly of home, of how the snow will have definitely lost its picturesque pure whiteness and will now be slush and ice and the source of plenty of visits to the emergency room. She thinks of her cold flat, with its candles and blankets, and of all the tinned food that she _isn't_ having to crack open and eat cold. Tomorrow should probably be her last day here, because she knows that after three days, the powers that be will be so sick of it themselves that there will be no other option than to spend the money to get everything working more quickly. She should probably check in with the others too, see how they're getting on at Tony's place and if Pepper's decided to spend her week in Miami instead.

When she finishes the pie, she keeps her eyes closed, relishing in the sweet aftertaste of the meat. It's not until Loki pulls gently on the chain that she realises that both he and Thor have finished, and are sitting in an awkward silence, not helped in the slightest by Natasha's prior obliviousness to it.

"Can I go and skim some stones?" Loki asks, lifting the chain slightly to indicate that if he goes, Natasha will have to go too.

"Sure," she says, and they stand simultaneously, nearly used to the confines of the chain linking them. They head down to the bank, while Thor packs away the leftover food, and Loki takes a swig of his ale, before using the base of the bottle to hollow out a small, secure well for it to stand in the pebbles. He crouches down, Natasha following, and begins searching amongst the pebbles for some prime stones. After a little while, he has a collection in the palm of his hand, all smooth, flat, and a strange, ghostly white.

"I'm having fun," she says quietly, as he turns over a couple more stones and then tosses them aside disapprovingly.

He surveys her silently, his lips skewing to the side until his fingers close around a stone of interest and he focuses his attention on that instead.

"Thank you for making this easy," she continues, in that same soft voice that she knows won't carry over to where Thor is. "I appreciate it."

He looks up at her briefly again but either he's more interested in his stones, or her cool blue gaze is holding a little too much sincerity for him to be able to deal with.

"I'd probably be having fun if _he _weren't here."

Natasha doesn't know what to make of that. On the one hand, it's still obvious that he can't see past the idea he has of Thor that he's the bringer of all misery, but on the other, it's a confession that actually, the two of them alone in the forest is his idea of a mildly pleasant situation. She decides to disregard the latter (for now) and focus on the more pressing issue.

"He _has_ to be here. If you leave that cell, you _have_ to be with him. But look at how much space he's giving you." She looks over to where Thor is sat by the tree, food packed away, sipping his ale as he reclines on his elbows, gazing up into the treetops. "He's really trying to make you comfortable around him. He knows how much you can't stand him, and as much as that _hurts him_, he accepts it and respects your boundaries."

Loki stands up suddenly, chooses a stone and skims it across the surface of the water. Natasha stands too and sighs, wishing at the very least Loki would just acknowledge how much effort Thor is putting in, with little regard for his own feelings. The amount of time he will have had to sacrifice in order to be Loki's sole warden when Natasha's not around is huge, at least ten hours of every day, and when combined with his duties as a prince, it's no surprise that he falls asleep while she Loki and play poker late into the night.

"You know I'm gonna have to head home tomorrow night," she says, watching the progress of one of Loki's stones as it bounces across to the far bank, eventually dipping beneath the surface. He lets out a small breath, then chooses a new stone. "Need to check in with everybody. Never been out of contact this long before. Apart from on assignments."

"When will you be back?"

"When I've bought chocolate…and your poker book."

"Give me a _date_," he says impatiently.

"Two, maybe three days at home, then I'll come back. I _kinda_ have to show up to work at least a couple of days a month."

Loki nods and skims another stone, the muscles in his face tight and twitchy. He's upset at the news, as she knew he would be. He's probably grown used to her being there at every waking moment these past couple of days, and to go back to the silence will be hard for him. But, who knows, it might force him to actually converse with Thor. Desperate times do call for desperate measures after all.

"It's so _boring_ when you're not around," he sighs. "It's just endless…misery. I hate it."

"Yeah," she says. "I know. But you gotta pay your dues, you know that."

"But for how long?" he asks, finally taking his attention off of the stones and placing it solely with Natasha. "Am I to stay in that cell for the rest of my life?"

"I don't really know what Asgardian law states when it comes to invading planets…" Natasha begins slowly. Loki rolls his eyes and turns back to the lagoon, flicking one of the stones towards the water with a little more force than strictly necessary. "But I do know that you're now allowed outside, and that Thor would have you out here everyday if you agreed to it. That's progress."

"I refuse to be chained to that imbecile."

"I know, but the point is, you're trusted enough for that to be an option. This is why I'm trying to get you guys to be civil to one another. You don't have to be best friends, but if he can trust you, if you actually embrace the opportunities he's giving you, then maybe after a couple more times out he'll be able to let just the two of us out together, or maybe he'll ditch the chains, I don't know. You have to really prove yourself, if you want an improvement, and no one else can do that for you."

He skims another stone, this time with slightly more of that treasured finesse of his, but doesn't reply. She doesn't mind when he's like this. It just means she knows he's digesting her words. Even if he doesn't like them, or agree with them, he's processing them and letting them sit in his brain, as opposed to flat out ignoring her. Then, hopefully, when he's laying awake at night because the floor is too hard and the blanket is too thin, his brain will present those words back to him, and he'll figure that actually, a little bit of effort might be worth it, if it means that one day, he might get out of there and get a proper bed again. That's what Natasha hopes, anyway, and so far, he's not let her down nearly as often as she first expected he might.

* * *

She drags her feet, unimpressed with the mixture of grit and slush spread all over the pavement. The walk to Tony's is cold and miserable and the power is still intermittent, the streetlights flickering occasionally, the streets eerily quiet. There are faint snowflakes falling from the sky, not enough to actually build up, but still an indication that it's not quite over just yet.

When she arrives at Tony's, she's surprised to see that the entire ground floor is full of people. The glass doors slide open and she walks through, relishing in the burst of warm air that envelops her from the heater above. The entrance hall has extension leads trailing all over the floor, the thick white cables covered up by rubber mats, taped down to the floor tiles. People are sitting on metal folding chairs, polystyrene coffee cups in hand, phones plugged into the nearest free socket.

Natasha smiles and heads for the lift, Jarvis recognising her and opening the doors automatically.

"The others are on the twenty-second floor, Agent Romanov. Shall I tell them you're coming?"

Natasha shrugs. "Nah," she says, and she feels the small leap in her gut as the lift starts to move upwards. "I'll surprise them."

"Very well. Just for reference, Agent Romanov, the piña coladas have a horrifying ratio of rum to pineapple juice."

"I'll bear that in mind," Natasha says, and the lift comes to a gentle halt, the doors dinging and sliding open smoothly. "Thanks Jarvis."

"Most welcome, Agent Romanov."

She can hear noise coming from the other end of the corridor - there's some vague, old school rock playing through the speakers, and despite it not being very loud, Tony seems to think he needs to shout to be heard above the racket.

"Bruce, that is how a piña colada is _supposed _to taste, I'm _telling you_."

Bruce's reply gets drowned out, and Natasha figures he's been sticking to beer up until this point. He's the first to notice her when she appears in the doorway, and he certainly has the most focused gaze. Steve is resting his head in his hands, his palms covering his ears, while Tony is leaning back on his chair precariously, in very serious danger of falling and smacking his head against the marble floor. Clint, meanwhile, is sipping his piña colada quite happily, but then he's always had a strong stomach for spirits. No match for her when it comes to vodka, but fairly impressive all the same.

"Look who it is!" Tony cries with a grand, sweeping gesture of his hand, his chair crashing back onto four legs with a loud crack. "How's dungeon boy?"

"Good," Natasha says, shrugging off her coat and slinging it onto the sofa. "What's going on downstairs?"

"It's been open during the entire outage. People can come, charge their phones…parts of Brooklyn are still without power so I think it's mainly those guys down there now. I'm just being a super nice guy, you know?" Tony smirks and Natasha rolls her eyes, taking a seat at the table. A glass of piña colada slides across the surface towards her, and she catches it before it flies off the edge and crashes onto the floor.

"It's strong," Clint says in a warning tone.

"Yeah, to you, maybe," Natasha replies. "Besides, some of the stuff they have on Asgard…" she raises her eyebrows high and takes a sip of her cocktail. It _is_ strong, but not in the way where she can feel it go straight to her head. The fierceness of the rum completely overpowers the sweetness of the pineapple juice, which is only present in a sugary after-taste that lingers on the back of her tongue.

"Did you bring any of it back?" Tony asks, his interest piqued.

"No," Natasha replies. "You guys wouldn't be able to handle it."

"If Loki can handle it, then _we_ can handle it," Clint says firmly, sipping up the last of his own cocktail through his straw, Natasha wincing at the irritating gurgling noise he makes when getting the last few drops caught between the ice cubes.

"Oh _God_ why don't you both just slap them on the table and get a ruler out…" Natasha sighs, stirring her own drink with her straw before taking another sip.

"We should play poker," Clint says to the others, ignoring Natasha's comment. Steve looks up, his eyes watery with a slightly pink tinge at the edges. He takes one look at Natasha then shakes his head.

"No way," he croaks. "Not if Natasha's playing. She'll win all my money. Again."

Natasha smiles, but when Tony stumbles to the bar to fetch a deck of cards, and returns with both the cards and a bottle of scotch, Steve is left with no option other than to join in.

"Losers have to take a shot," he says, flicking shot glasses across the table to each of them. Steve groans and buries his face in his arms, while Tony starts to deal.

"When did you last play?" Bruce asks Natasha quietly.

"Properly? With you guys I guess," she answers, taking up her hand and inspecting it. "Why?"

"I wanna know how rusty you are," he says with a small smile, before adding, "But what about _improperly_?"

"Today," she murmurs. Bruce opens his mouth in surprise, but no words come out, and she smirks, knowing exactly what's going through his head, but having consumed far too much rum, even in just a half glass, to be able to give a damn.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Here is my gift to you, in celebration of the fact that this time next week I'll be London-bound for the midnight showing of TDW. The countdown begins. Mwahaha. Enjoy, chicas.

* * *

**Turn**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Fury's words echo in her head as she wanders through the bookshop, browsing the shelves, her eyes barely seeing the titles on the spines of the books.

"_I've got something coming up for you. It's level seven, don't mention it to the others. I'll give you more details when I have them."_

She had answered with a courteous _"Yes sir,"_ and had then left his office, her head full of questions about where she'd be going, who she'd be going with, if anyone, who she'd be dealing with, how severely she'd have to deal with them, and, most importantly, how long she'd be gone for. With Fury giving her a heads up so far in advance, it seems as though this assignment isn't exactly going to be a day trip to Staten Island.

Eventually, after she manages to pull herself back to reality, she finds a book on poker technique. She flicks through it, pausing at some of the chapters and reading the first few lines. It's quite dense, and delves quite heavily into the psychology behind the game, but she figures Loki will appreciate that more than an idiot's guide or a brief couple of pages in a broader book about card games in general. She tries to find something else that might occupy his time, something that will keep him focused, because it's the boredom that will send him spiralling downwards more than anything else.

She picks up an old espionage thriller from one of the shelves, glances at the back cover, her eyes scanning the blurb then decides that it's worth a shot. She doesn't know what kind of books he'd like, but she's guessing chick-lit is out, and doesn't really see him as the military action novel sort. Besides, classic espionage will hold just the right amount of drama for him, and, if it's as good as the reviews on the back cover say, the plot will keep him gripped until the very end. If he even bothers to read it, of course.

Natasha heads over to the counter, books tucked under her arm as she extracts her credit card from her purse. The smiley girl behind the cash register bags up her books for her and after Natasha has tapped in her pin, she heads back out onto the chilly street, walking quickly through the crowds, hoping she'll make it to the department store before it closes.

She doesn't know when she became so determined to make Loki happy, but as she ducks into the store a few minutes later, dazzled by Christmas decorations, she decides that the when and the why don't really matter at all, it's only the outcome that does.

* * *

"How has he been?" Natasha asks, her head still swimming from the effects of her bifrost trip.

Thor hesitates before answering, and when he speaks, he does so slowly, as though considering each and every syllable. "Good…he came into the woods yesterday."

"Just the two of you?" Natasha asks, raising an eyebrow. She hadn't expected that. But perhaps Loki had grown so bored of being cooped up in his cell that he decided an hour or so outside with Thor was preferable to staring out into the dungeon.

"Yes…" Thor replies. "I didn't use the chains. I didn't think it necessary. Father was furious when I told him but…"

"Wow," Natasha says, still trying to process the information. She can't imagine what's gotten into Loki to lead him to that, and for all that she's glad that he's taken a huge step in the right direction, there is a small, selfish part of her that is upset about the fact that he did it when she wasn't around. It's ridiculous, really, but she likes to be able to see the results of her work, whether it's a level seven assignment or trying to rebalance Loki's ideas about the world. She hopes she'll get to see some of the same benefits today, but knows that if she asks him too many questions about it, if she tries to get him to talk about his feelings, he'll shut her off and play poker in silence all day until she leaves.

She knows the route down to the dungeons as well as Thor does now, and she's gotten used to keeping up with his huge strides, her feet moving nearly twice as quickly as his. As they descend the stairs to the dungeons, Thor says quietly, "He will be pleased to see you. He's missed you a great a deal."

"Oh really?" Natasha says skeptically. "He told you that?"

"He eats less when you're not here, goes to sleep earlier, plays with the cards on his own. I'd say it's safe to assume that he was missing you."

"I don't think you should make any assumptions about him," Natasha says, as she unhooks one end of the chain from around the door handles. Thor takes it from her and pulls the rest out, before laying it on the floor and opening the door. He gives her a shrug and that's the last of it, Natasha choosing to ignore it and head inside the dungeon.

"I told you she'd be back, didn't I, brother?" Thor says cheerfully, sweeping into the room, and grinning at Loki.

Loki looks up at Natasha and offers her the briefest of smiles, but ignores Thor completely. Thor doesn't give up, however.

"I was just telling her about our trip out into the woods, yesterday."

"How very exciting for you," Loki drawls. "I don't know how you're managing to contain yourself."

Natasha smirks and steps through the glass, placing her bag on the floor and sitting down next to Loki. His eyes wander over to the bag and one of his eyebrows quirks upwards, but he doesn't comment.

"Are we going out today?" Thor asks, still standing outside the cell, his hands clasped behind his back.

"No," Loki says. "I don't want to."

"All right," Thor says with a nod. "I'll be back later."

"Can't wait…" Loki murmurs. Thor doesn't quite hear him, and bids the both of them goodbye before disappearing behind the dungeon door and leaving the two of them alone.

"Someone's cranky…" Natasha muses, pulling her bag onto her lap and opening it. Loki leans over to peer inside but Natasha closes it and gives him a look. He resumes his previous position, his lips pouting slightly, eyebrows drawn together in a frown, and Natasha turns her attention back to her bag. "So how was the trip out? I heard you weren't chained up."

"It was dull," Loki sighs, his eyes focused on her hands as she rummages through her belongings. "Dreadful and dull."

"Never mind," Natasha says briskly. She pulls out a bar of chocolate and hands it to Loki, whose expression of displeasure immediately melts away. He opens the packet and breaks it into pieces, first offering some to Natasha, who declines with a wave of her hand, and then taking some himself and popping it into his mouth, a smile spreading slowly across his lips as he allows the chocolate to melt into his mouth. While he enjoys his chocolate, Natasha pulls out the two books she's brought for him and tosses them into his lap. His eyes snap open at the impact and he looks down, picking up the first - the poker book - and flicking through the pages.

"Your paper is so thin," he says thickly through his chocolate. "And shiny. It's strange."

"Is that a problem?" Natasha asks, raising an eyebrow.

"_No_," he says defensively, holding the book closer to him as though he fears she'll take it away from him.

"Good," Natasha replies simply. "I got you a novel as well," she adds. "Thought it might entertain you when you're bored of cards."

Loki picks up the paperback, frowning at the cover. The dark, watercolour mishmash of greys and blues is broken only by the glow of an old fashioned street light, and in the distance, there is a silhouette of a man, walking alone, away from the reader. In thin, serifed, crimson letters, the title _The Man at the Top _is laid across the top of the cover, and Loki's eyes pause on it, before he flicks through the pages, pausing occasionally to read a sentence or two.

"What's it about?" he asks her after a moment.

"Spy," she says with a shrug.

"Like you?" he asks, a small grin forming on his lips.

"No," she says with a chuckle. "I don't think so somehow. No one would ever write a book about me. A report, maybe, but not a book."

"It's a shame," Loki says, his eyes paused on the blurb, moving slowly down the paragraph. "I think it'd make a good story."

Natasha can't stop the sarcastic _ha_ that comes from her mouth, then follows it up with "Like anybody'd wanna read that."

"I'd read it," Loki says, his eyes still on the back cover of the book but no longer moving. It's like he's waiting for her reaction before he'll dare make eye contact with her again, but Natasha doesn't know _how_ to react to something like that. Is it a compliment? Or is it him just wanting to know all of the details that he didn't manage to wrestle out of Clint when he was in control of his mind? She doesn't know, but at the moment, there is a softness to him that makes her think that it might just be the former. And, if Thor was right and Loki really has missed her, or her company, or her gifts, or whatever combination of those that he likes the best, then maybe he's a little more appreciative of her today than previously. She's sure the chocolate wouldn't have hurt that.

"I wouldn't," Natasha says. "When it's not depressing, it's just boring."

"Even now?" Loki asks, looking up at last, faint, crinkled lines appearing on his forehead.

"Well maybe not _right now_," Natasha reasons, then she offers him a small smile which seems to placate him, and he offers her some chocolate. This time she takes it, despite having had breakfast less than an hour ago. There's something nice about sharing food in silence with him, their fingertips occasionally meeting over the packet, though neither of them acknowledge it. She realises that she's actually comfortable with him, in a way that she is with very _very_ few people on Earth. Clint is one of them, Bruce, these days, is another. Steve too, in fact, all of the Avengers, she's comfortable around. She's used to them now, but before they had that very unique bonding session, courtesy of the man sitting next to her, Clint was probably the only person she could sit down and chill out with. Not even Fury, who plays his cards closer to his chest than anybody she's ever met. It makes him an intimidating poker player, that steely face of his never shifting from its glower. She has a theory that if he _does_ have a tell, it's in the muscles around his missing eye, hidden conveniently from view by his eye patch. She's never voiced the theory to him, but she's shared it with Clint, and whenever the three of them are in a game together, she can see Clint staring at the eye patch, as though daring it to move.

They finish the chocolate, and she momentarily feels bad for depriving him of a good third of it, but then, she supposes, there _is_ a second bar in her bag that she's planning on giving him before she leaves this evening, to tide him over until her next visit. She wonders whether she'll get to see him again before Fury sends her off on her next assignment, but she doesn't want to bring the subject up - details are so scarce at the moment and she doesn't want to spoil Loki's mood unnecessarily. Just as long as she doesn't get shipped off without a chance to explain to him that she's going, she'll be fine, and hopefully so will he, if a little sulky.

It's when they're halfway through their fifth round of poker, Loki having speedily read the first chapter of his new book on strategy, that the chains on the other side of the door start to rattle. Assuming it's Thor, Natasha and Loki continue playing, Loki holding his cards close to his chest as he raises the bet with a handful of golden coins. Natasha is counting out enough coins to match him, when she realises the footsteps on the dungeon floor don't sound as heavy or purposeful as Thor's. She whips her head around, and sees an old man, his white hair swept back from his face, a dark eye patch covering his right eye. He's standing silently, casting one judgemental eye down on the two of them, and Natasha feels like a schoolgirl, down on the floor, caught red handed in some sort of wrongdoing. She knows who it is in an instant.

"Father…" Loki breathes, placing his cards face down on the floor and sitting up straighter. Even after all this time, the child in him is so painfully obvious.

"You're addressing me as such, now?" Odin says coldly.

"Yes." Loki's hands are clasped in his lap, one index finger tapping nervously against the back of his other hand. Natasha can tell by the slight pull on his lower lip that's he's biting the inside of it, whether to keep himself from saying something he'll regret or to keep his nerves from becoming too apparent, she doesn't know.

"And you must be the human in whom Thor has so much faith," Odin says, turning to Natasha.

"Well," Natasha says with a frown. "I'm human. You'd have to ask Thor about that last bit."

The corners of Odin's mouth twitch minutely upwards, and Natasha quietly lets out a breath that she hadn't realised she'd been holding. There is something about Odin that demands respect, something that sets her spine on edge, her skin prickling with unwelcome goose bumps. She knows this is most certainly a case of speak when spoken to, and it seems as though Loki is following that rule as well.

"Thor took you outside yesterday, did he not?"

"Yes," Loki replies, his voice sounding smaller than Natasha has ever heard it.

"Without any shackles?"

"No shackles."

"And you returned to your cell without incident?"

"Yes, father."

"_Why_?"

Natasha chews her lip and looks down at the floor, wishing she didn't have to listen to this conversation. She can tell, just by the tone of Loki's voice that his shoulders are slumped, and that his eyes have that glazed over, slightly vacant look to them. It's the same look he had after she woke him from his nightmare, that same, shaken, defeated tone of voice, barely above a whisper.

"Because there's nowhere else for me to go. The last time I left Asgard it didn't…work out."

Natasha almost smiles at the understatement of the century, but the atmosphere is so heavy, she can feel it weighing on her shoulders, keeping her planted firmly in her spot next to Loki, her gaze still fixed on the floor.

"Thor tells me your behaviour has improved under the care of this woman."

Natasha looks up to see Odin gesture vaguely towards her, and Loki nods.

"I suppose you could say that," he agrees.

"Why her? Why not your family?"

She would be offended, were it not for the crack in Odin's voice as he says the last word, and she knows it's not because Odin doesn't think _she's_ worthy enough, but that he doesn't think _any of them_ are as worthy as she is and can't for the life of him see why. After all, what's so special about one little human, even if she can pack a punch and speak half a dozen languages? She's nothing to them, it's why Frejir was so determined to put her in her place. There is an arrogance that will only lead to trouble. Loki had it, on the helicarrier, Thor had it too, according to his file, and Frejir certainly had a wealth of it. Odin, as King, is probably a little more entitled to have it, but he doesn't exhibit it in the same, attention seeking way as the others. He just seems to have much better things to be doing.

"Natasha doesn't treat me like an animal."

"You behaved like an _animal_," Odin hisses. "The Chitauri, Loki! How could you sink so low?"

"Thanos said -"

"You listen to _Thanos _over your own _family_?"

"You _lied to me_." The words come out in a rush, and perhaps he had thought better of saying them but had then been unable to stop himself. Natasha feels the goose pimples on her skin intensify, as though an icy blast of air has rushed through the cell.

"And Thanos didn't?"

Loki hesitates before answering, and when he does, his voice is thick, his words coming slowly. He has never sounded so unlike himself. "I didn't think at the time -"

"You didn't think at _all_ you foolish boy!" Odin snaps. Natasha feels Loki stiffen next to her and she has the strongest urge to take his hand and remind him that she's here, she's with him, and she's not going anywhere. She doesn't move though. She knows that Odin will draw conclusions, or else see it as a sign of weakness in Loki, that he needs this human girl to lick his wounds and keep him safe from the big bad wolf.

She wonders whether Thor knows that Odin is down here, but she hopes that had he known this morning, he would have given her a heads up, even if he'd made her promise not to mention it to Loki. She can't help but feel that if he were here, he might be able to soften Odin's blows, or at least defend Loki to Odin in some way. He'd be grasping at straws, because everything Odin is saying is true, but all the same, she can almost feel Loki shrinking beside her under Odin's glare.

"I'm sorry," Loki mumbles.

Natasha hears him loud and clear, and at his words, she looks up to gauge Odin's reaction, who has apparently heard Loki just as well as Natasha has. He fidgets with his staff, moving it to three different spots on the floor before returning it to its first position and leaning heavily on it. He blinks a few times, considering Loki, and briefly, he glances across at Natasha. She meets his gaze unfalteringly, and then Odin turns his attention back to Loki, apparently coming to a conclusion.

"You are still my son," Odin says softly. "Despite your mistakes, you will always be my son. You have no idea how much it pains me to have you locked down here, how distraught your mother is, and Thor, who has tried so _hard_."

Loki doesn't say anything, and it's probably for the best. Any derogatory comments towards the favourite son will hardly do Loki any favours now.

"But, he tells me that he believes you can be trusted more than previously. He says you have found peace."

"_What_?"

"Yes…" Odin muses. "I had the same reaction. That aside, you have proved yourself to be more…responsible. And for that, I am glad."

Natasha turns to Loki, waiting to see if he responds, but he continues to look down at his hands, his jaw clenched, and Natasha realises he's waiting for a _but_.

"As such, I no longer believe that this cell is the best place for you."

Loki looks up at this, and Natasha thinks he might give himself whiplash with the speed at which he moves.

"What?"

"Your quarters are being prepared for your return as we speak," Odin says, his words monotonous, giving nothing away as he narrows his eye at Loki. Natasha gets the feeling that he's half convinced that this is a huge mistake, and she wonders how instrumental Thor has been in pushing for this. "They will be locked from the outside, but you will have more space, more privacy, your belongings…though I see you have collected a few during your stay here."

"Natasha brought me some books from Midgard…" he says, stumbling over his words. "Can I really have my room back?" The disbelief is evident in his voice, and it is a mark of how damaged he is that he cannot comprehend the concept of something _good_ happening to him. Apparently, good things don't happen to Loki, or so he believes, but perhaps the tables are about to turn.

"Yes, you can have your room back. The more you adjust back into our world, the more trust you earn, the more freedom will be granted to you."

"You mean, things could go back to how they were?"

The carefully controlled sense of hope in his voice answers Natasha's question from her first visit. But she's always known, from that very first day, perhaps even from that moment when she had stood over his broken body, pointing his own spear at him, that he'd give anything to go back to a simpler, happier time in his life.

"Your mother misses her son dearly. As do I. We hope that with the right encouragement, you will be able to rejoin us fully in the future."

A clatter sounds from the dumb waiter by the door and Odin turns to find the source of the noise.

"Your lunch is here," he says to Loki. "Thor will come to collect you after you've eaten." He moves to leave, and takes a few steps towards the door before Loki suddenly rises to his knees and calls after him.

"Father!"

Odin looks back over his shoulder. "Yes?"

Loki's next words are just about as audible as his earlier apology, and probably just as difficult for him to utter. "Thank you."

A small smile curves Odin's lips, and he nods, reaching out to open the door, but before he even touches the handle, Loki calls after him again.

"Father!"

"Yes, Loki?" Odin says patiently, taking a step backwards and turning to face them.

"Natasha will still be allowed to visit, won't she?" It's that same, small, uncertain voice that Natasha hates to hear come from him, but this time, his words don't leave her feeling like she's been punched in the chest, but rather like someone's inflated a balloon inside her, filling her up with lightness. Odin's face is contorted into a confused frown, and Natasha suddenly finds herself feeling anxious over his answer.

"You honestly think I would deny you the one thing that makes you happy?" He sounds disappointed, and some of the hardness has vanished from his cold blue eyes. "How cruel do you think I am?"

Loki sinks back onto the floor and says nothing, so Odin takes his leave, having sent a courteous nod in Natasha's direction, which, after a moment of shock, she returns. Odin closes the door firmly behind him, but Natasha does not hear the familiar rattle of chains before he walks back down the corridor and up the stairs. She's not the only one - Loki has his eyes narrowed at the closed door, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

"Thor'll be here soon," she says. "After lunch, right?" She gets up and goes to collect the tray, eyeing the door warily while she ensures everything will balance properly on its journey to the cell. She doubts anyone will come snooping, doubts they even know that Odin's been down here and left the chains off, but all the same, she's rather glad when she's back in the cell. She sets the tray down between them and starts helping herself to potatoes, but when Loki doesn't move, she puts her plate down and reaches across to him, taking his hand.

"You okay?"

He nods.

"_Your_ sleeping quarters should be just how you left them, I think."

This almost raises a smile from him, but when he still doesn't move, Natasha gives him a gentle nudge and says 'C'mon, the food's getting cold." She hands him a plate and dutifully, he begins to fill it, his face paler than usual as the news of his change in circumstance slowly sinks in.

* * *

She hadn't known what to expect. Half of her had thought being back in his own space, his comfort zone, would give him a new lease of energy, that he'd be bouncing off the walls with excitement now that he was finally being treated like a person again. The other part of her, the part she had pushed down and tried to ignore, the part that was, inevitably, correct, had anticipated a silent, subdued Loki, who would take a while to adjust to his new (old) surroundings. He places his few belongings - the books, the deck of cards, and the pile of jewels they've been using as poker chips, wrapped up in that thin blanket of his - on the desk, then turns around, surveying the room, his arms hanging limply by his side. He opens his mouth to speak, but apparently thinks better of it and closes it again.

"You okay?" Natasha asks.

He nods, his eyes darting around the room as if expecting someone to jump out from some dark corner, but nobody does, and so Natasha heads towards the doors on the far side of the room, pushing them open to reveal Loki's bedroom. He approaches, standing behind her and looking into the room over her shoulder, and the way he hangs back, hesitates when Natasha stands aside to let him go in, reminds her of her own feelings, all those years ago when she was dumped in the real world and expected to handle it after so much…trouble.

"Just how you remember it?"

"Yes," he says. His voice croaks, but then he clears his throat and repeats himself. "Yes…more or less."

He walks around, scowling at the fireplace when he passes it. Thor informed them that it's been altered, so that it will only open when Thor's in his own rooms at the other end of the hidden corridor. No escape for Loki. To be perfectly honest, Natasha's not sure whether Loki would use the fireplace even if he could. On the one hand, he might be too proud to go and get his hands dirty in memories from days long gone, but on the other, where else would he go? He knows well enough that the world outside of Asgard doesn't hold anything good for him, he's learned that the hard way, and it is possibly the most effective way of making sure he remains where he ought to. Perhaps, after a few months, he might get itchy feet and start wanting to explore, might get a little bit cocky and push his luck, but Natasha hopes by then that he'll have had even more privileges extended to him.

She also hopes, no matter how fruitless and naive it might be, that one day, she'll come to visit him and it won't be a prisoner who greets her, but a free man. Nothing's impossible, after all.

"Why don't you go and have a bath?" Natasha suggests, nodding towards the bathroom.

"Do I _smell_?" he asks pointedly, sounding a little more like the Loki she's used to.

"No, but you know, fresh start. It'll give you a little time to relax, 'cause this can be pretty overwhelming."

Loki turns away from her, gazing around the room. "I'd forgotten how big it is," he mumbles. "The bed's almost as big as my entire cell."

It's true, the bed is disgracefully huge, and it's something that always made her feel uncomfortable when she was staying here. Last thing at night, while she changed into her pyjamas, contemplating which small section of the mattress she would lie on that night, her mind would always wander back to Loki, lying on the hard white floor of his cell, that measly little blanket pulled up over his head, trying to keep the demons at bay. It had naturally been difficult to worry about him too much once she'd laid her head down on the pillows and pulled the bedspread over her, but upon waking, her first thought would always be of him, and she would dress in a hurry, ready to go by the time Thor knocked cautiously on the other side of the fireplace before pressing the knot that would open it up.

"Clothes are all in your dressing room," she says. "You don't have to wear that anymore." She points to the thin green shirt which has certainly seen better days, the hem having come unstitched at one side, probably from where he's been picking at it, several small holes which have been made worse by his bored fiddling with them, and a small tear at the base of the v-shaped neckline, the material fraying, threads tickling his pale chest.

After a few more minutes of Loki trying to acclimatise to his new living arrangements, he eventually concedes that a bath might be a good idea, collects some clothes from his dressing room, and disappears into the bathroom. Natasha settles herself on the sofa by the fireplace, and stares into the flames, enjoying the heat. Once she hears the taps in the bathroom turn off, she knows she won't be hearing from Loki for a while, and wouldn't be surprised if he falls asleep in there. She had a lot of baths during those days that she locked herself in the apartment - the heat made her feel safe, alive, and the small bathroom hadn't felt too overwhelming, unlike the large, open plan rooms with windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, giving her an unimpaired view of the entire city.

When she hears a gentle knock, she blinks, and turns to the door behind her, but it's open, and no one's standing there.

"Loki?" The voice is muffled, and Natasha realises it's Thor, and he's behind the fireplace. She gets up and pushes the knot in the wood, and the hearth slowly rotates, bringing Thor into view.

"He's taking a bath," Natasha tells him.

"Oh," Thor says. "I was just wondering how he was."

"Shell shocked, I think," Natasha replies, taking her seat once more and tucking her legs under her. "But that's natural. He's been down there for so long…"

Thor nods. "I hope he adjusts well. Father was skeptical about the move…"

"Did you push hard for it?"

"We had a…discussion," Thor says slowly, then he smiles ruefully. "But I hope that Loki will prove himself to father as he has to me. I told him that we should grant him a little more trust, and see if he rises to the challenge."

"What did he say?"

"He said he'd think about it," Thor replies. "But then he spoke to my mother and…" he gestures to the room. "Here we are. My mother practices several kinds of magic. Her most impressive, in my eyes, is negotiating with my father."

"Has she been to see Loki?"

Thor shakes his head. "She doesn't want to upset his routine. She believes that if he's been improving with your company, then we should continue in the same way until he's more stable."

"Yeah…" Natasha says, her stomach jolting unpleasantly. "About that…"

Thor's eyes flash, and he suddenly looks worried, but she supposes it's best to tell him now, to give him a chance to prepare. It's not an ideal time for this to be happening, after so many things have been set in motion with Loki, but she doesn't even know _when_ it will happen, only that it's going to.

"What's the matter? Is Director Fury displeased with the amount of time you spend here? We could compensate him for his troubles, I'm sure we could find a way to -"

"I've got an assignment coming up. Pretty soon actually. I'm gonna be away for a…a while."

"Can no one else -?"

"Nobody else has the clearance," Natasha tells him. "But it's a little way off yet and I just wanted to let you know in advance."

"Does Loki know?"

Natasha shakes her head. "_No_. Don't tell him either. I'll break it to him when I know more details."

Thor takes a seat in the armchair and rests his forehead against his palm.

"Is it something _I_ could do? You know I have no interest in Midgardian politics, my only ties are to my friends."

Natasha smiles and shakes her head, wondering how to phrase her response. "I think…" she begins, "It calls for something a little more…stealthy than thunder and lightning," she tells him.

"Of course," Thor says with a smile. "And in that sense I am woefully inept."

"Well I'm not the sole worthy user of a super magical hammer so you know, we all have our talents," Natasha replies.

Thor smiles, but it quickly fades, and he runs a hand through his hair and sighs. "Do you have any idea how long you'll be gone for?"

"Not really," Natasha says. "I'm guessing at least a week. Could be as much as a couple of months."

Thor's eyes widen at this prospect and he slumps back in his chair, his hands clasping the arms of it, fingers tapping the ends. "He'll be upset. He won't admit it, but he will."

"I know," Natasha says quietly. "But hopefully we can manage that a little."

"You're much better at that than I am," Thor replies. "Perhaps I'll leave that to you."

"Coward," Natasha says good-naturedly, a smirk on her face. Thor smiles, but at that moment, they hear the water start to drain from the bathtub and they both turn to look towards the door.

"I should go," Thor says quickly, getting to his feet. "He'll think me intrusive."

"You're not int -"

But before Natasha can even finish the word, the hearth is already halfway round its rotation. Thor raises a hand in farewell and disappears from sight. Moments later, the bathroom door opens, and Loki appears in clean clothes, hair damp and hanging round his shoulders, his skin looking soft for the first time since Natasha has known him.

"What?"

Natasha realises she's staring and shrugs her shoulders, breaking her gaze with a couple of rapid blinks. "Nothing. You okay?"

"Fine," he says, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You're still staring."

"Sorry," Natasha says, forcibly turning away from him now. "It's just -" She doesn't know how to explain it. Maybe it's because she knows that their hours are numbered now, at least for a while, or maybe it's because she's never seen him look _healthy_, but she wants to commit the image of him to memory, just like this. Right now, he is perhaps as close to his natural state as she will ever see him - she can tell by his eyes that's he's still sleepy from the warm, steamy haze of the bath, and his clothes are simple, no leather, no armour, no weapons tucked into belts.

"Just _what_, exactly?"

"You look healthy," she says quickly. "It's good…it's a good thing."

Loki considers her for another moment, then meanders his way through the furniture to reach his bed, collapsing onto it and staring up at the ceiling, his arms and legs spread wide. Natasha rests her chin on the heel of her palm and stares into the fire, the gentle crackling of the flames the only sound in the room. She ponders the idea of reading Loki's new novel to pass the time, if he's going to go to sleep, but he breaks the silence by speaking her name, his voice gentle in the warm, sleepy atmosphere.

She turns around on the sofa, giving him her full attention, but he's still staring at the ceiling. "Yeah?"

"Will you come and lay with me?" He doesn't break focus, and either's there's something really interesting right above his head or he's been working up to make this simple request for the last ten minutes.

Her answer comes in the form of her getting up and going to join him on the bed, laying down next to him, the plump feather pillows rustling as she gets herself comfortable.

"Bed too big?" she asks.

"Perhaps a touch," he replies, glancing across at her then back at the ceiling.

She knows this feeling all too well, and she knows the others back on Earth would think her a soft touch, easily manipulated, or even just an idiot for agreeing to lay down next to a murderer. But apart from the fact that Loki is far more than just a murderer (in the same way that she likes to think she's far more than just a murderer) none of them have ever experienced this. Perhaps Tony had some semblance of culture shock after his kidnapping, and maybe Steve as well, having to suddenly get used to the twenty first century. But it's not quite the same as having your heart pumping three times faster than normal just because there's more space around you than you feel able to handle. She never felt so small, and vulnerable, and alone as she did when she shut herself up in her apartment, and it wasn't until Clint beat her door down, ordered a couple of pizzas and watched some TV with her that she started to readjust.

"It _is_ pretty huge," Natasha says. "You could fit half a dozen people in here."

Loki smirks. "My more adventurous youth aside…" he begins, and Natasha raises an eyebrow. She doesn't even get to question the plausibility of that statement before he breaks into a smile and lets out a snigger. 'I jest, I jest."

"Sure you do," Natasha says, rolling onto her side to get a better look at that smile. It's such a rare sight on him and perhaps that's why she treasures it so much. Or maybe it's just because deep down, despite everything, she thinks he deserves to be happy, even if he doesn't think so himself.

Loki turns onto his side too, his damp hair splayed over the pillow. After a moment, he reaches out and tucks a lock of hair behind Natasha's ear, then withdraws his hand carefully. She doesn't know what to make of that, and so she plays her poker face, not wanting to encourage him any further, but also, and more importantly, not wanting to leave him feeling rejected, or foolish. She just lays there, watching him, expression plain, and he gets the hint, keeping his hands to himself as his eyelids grow heavier and heavier.

Natasha can feel herself becoming tired, and perhaps she does doze off for a while, but when she rejoins reality, Loki is fast asleep, no facial twitches from demons haunting his dreams, his fingers curled gently around the corner of his pillow. She doesn't know how long she watches him before she hears the soft knock from the other side of the fireplace, but when it sounds she gets out of bed as quickly and as quietly as possible. By the time the hearth has rotated, Natasha is folding the bedspread over Loki, unwilling to leave him all night with goose pimpled skin. She takes the second bar of chocolate out of her bag and places it on Loki's bedside table, there for when he wakes up.

"Ready?" Thor asks in a hushed voice, his eyes falling on Loki, his mouth turning upwards at the corners.

"Yeah," Natasha says, pulling on her jacket. She grabs her bag and slings it over her shoulder, then turns to Thor, who is still watching Loki.

"He looks so peaceful," he says. "You truly are a miracle worker."

Natasha rolls her eyes and goes to stand by the hearth, one hand resting on the mantel, ready for the initial jerk of movement. Thor exhales heavily, then turns towards Natasha and the fireplace. For a moment, he looks confused, and then, as though the information has slowly filtered through, he says, "Midgard," with a firm nod, then presses the knot on the fireplace.

She keeps her eyes on Loki until the last moment, when all the light and warmth from his bedroom disappears along with the sight of his sleeping form. The walk along the corridor to Thor's quarters is slow and silent, and there is a part of her that very dearly wishes that she was still taking up some of the space in that too large bed. She knows, in the morning, he'll have a horrible time when he wakes, and an even worse day to follow on from that.

She tucks her hair behind her ear and keeps putting one foot in front of the other, knowing that one day, and that it'll be sooner, rather than later, Loki is going to have to learn to cope without a chaperone.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Yeah I might have fallen asleep midway through proofreading...

* * *

**Turn**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"We need you to remove a threat, before the situation gets out of hand." Fury's voice is heavy, his hands clasped together on his desk, his expression sombre.

"I didn't realise we were in the business of _removing threats_," Natasha replies, arms folded, eyebrow raised.

"We tried to remove _you_," Fury says. "Although, that's probably not the best argument for you to accept the assignment."

"I have a choice?" Natasha asks, genuinely surprised.

"You've always had a choice, and you always will. But if you take it, I need to know your head is going to be in the game one hundred percent. This is level seven, you're not gonna receive any aid from us, and should the worst happen, we can't claim you, obviously."

Natasha feels a familiar weight in her chest. "That bad?" she asks.

"We're talking human _experiments_," Fury tells her. "Our guy is so heavily involved with politicians, big businesses, that the authorities can't touch him. He can't be extradited, but he is creating _monsters_."

"Monsters like Bruce?" Natasha asks carefully. "Because -"

"_Not_ like Bruce," Fury assures her. "We're talking stripped of everything that makes them human."

"What kind of shitty place are you sending me into?" She's encountered some awful things in her years working for various organisations, but judging by unusually Fury's solemn gaze, this is a big deal. It's an especially big deal if it's not been cleared by the powers that be, which it doesn't sound like it has, if they're refusing to claim her.

"You're the only one I trust not to get _caught_. Whoever I send out, I want them to come back, and you…you'll be fine. And you'll get the job done too, I know." There is a hint of pride in his eye as he leans back in his seat and looks at her, and that takes some of the pressure off of that weight in her chest, but it does sound like a kamikaze mission, despite Fury's (perhaps exaggerated) faith in her.

"How long d'you think I'll be gone for?" she asks, not even bothering to tell him that yes, she accepts the assignment, and _yes_, she understands that should she be captured, they can't claim her, they can't send help, and they can't even say her name aloud ever again.

"Well we're getting flights booked now -" Fury begins, but Natasha cuts him off, hauling herself forward in her seat, her heart pounding in her chest.

"You can't! Not yet, I need to go back to Asgard before I leave. I _have to_."

"_I'll_ speak to Thor, I'm sure you've earned a leave of absence after all the hours you've spent up there. Don't worry about it." He smiles, in what Natasha assumes Fury believes is a comforting manner, but it doesn't relax her at all. If anything, it just makes her feel worse, like everything's being taken out of her control, Loki's fate resting in the hands of Fury, who probably wouldn't bat an eyelid if Loki keeled over and died.

"_No_," Natasha argues, "You don't _understand_. I need to see _Loki_, not Thor. Thor knows I've got things coming up, but Loki _doesn't_."

"_So?_" Fury says with a light chuckle. "What difference does that make?"

Natasha opens her mouth to speak but no words present themselves. How does she explain to her boss - her boss who is the walking, talking, definition of _badass_ - that actually, she really gives a damn about the guy who tried to kill them all and take over the world not so long ago?

"What's going on, Natasha?" Fury says in that stern voice that's usually reserved for Tony. "Has something happened? You've been spending more time on other worlds than you have with us these last few weeks. What's he done to you?"

"He hasn't -" Natasha starts, but she breaks off, slumping in her seat and letting out a heavy sigh. She rests her forehead on the tips of her fingers and considers her next words carefully. "He's in a transitional period," she says at last.

Fury laughs, softly at first, then it builds and builds until it becomes a deep, booming chuckle. Natasha scowls at him until he runs out of steam, and his laughter dies down, one of his large hands resting on his stomach as he tries to catch his breath.

"A _transitional period_," he says, wiping at his eye with the back of his hand. "You know, for a Russian, you come out with some funny shit sometimes."

Natasha's scowl deepens, and Fury manages to regain his composure.

"Oh," Fury says, suddenly resolute. "You're actually serious."

"_Yes_," Natasha responds stiffly, her voice tight and clipped. "I'm serious."

"_Enlighten me_," Fury says, waving a hand towards her, inviting her to speak. "How does a murderous demi-god end up being in a _transitional period_?"

"I'm going back to Asgard before I leave for the assignment," Natasha tells him, refusing to indulge his humour and curiosity until that particular details is laid out and understood.

"You do what you want," he says. "You can go today if you like, and we'll book flights for tomorrow night. Whatever you want."

At this news, Natasha relaxes a little, her arms unfolding, the stiffness leaving her spine. "When I was first hired," she says, resting her head on her hand, her eyes focused on the desk as the words slowly make their way up the inside her throat and out of her mouth. "I was a wreck, as you well know."

"Yeah, I remember Clint had to bust your apartment door down in the end, didn't he?" All of his humour has vanished now, his tone solemn. He knows how big a deal it is for Natasha to talk about herself, especially her past, and she appreciates that he doesn't employ some sort of nervous, defence mechanism to deal with it. He meets it head on, and better than that, he doesn't judge.

"Exactly," she says with a sigh. "After something like…what I went through." She refuses to give it a label. It will forever be a dark cloud that she buries in the back of her mind, and manages to ignore ninety nine percent of the time. "You get kind of…agoraphobic, I guess? Or maybe it's a little bit like Stockholm Syndrome. You get used to your surroundings when you're in captivity. The real world is so much bigger than one room. So much bigger, and so much fucking scarier."

"Yeah," Fury says softly. "Yeah I can imagine."

"I dealt with it by locking myself away, spending a lot of time in the bathroom, because it's pretty much cell-sized and was the only place I felt safe. No windows either, no world outside. Beautifully insular." She smiles, though the muscles in her mouth feel dry as they stretch, and she can't maintain the smile for long. "You're in this crazy headspace where you think everybody's an enemy, but the reality is, nobody gives a shit about you. The pizza guy doesn't care so long as you tip well, the neighbours couldn't give a fuck, and if they _do_ wake up in the middle of the night because you're screaming your way out of a nightmare, the chances are they're too shit scared to say a god damn thing."

"So, not that I wanna sound insensitive or anything," Fury says gently. "But how does this relate to Loki?"

"They broke him," Natasha sighs. "He pretends not, but they got to him in the end. Thanos laid the groundwork, they just…finished him off."

"Right…"

"_So_," Natasha continues, taking a deep breath. "He's been locked up, forgotten about, barely seen daylight for _months_, and now, suddenly, because he's been talked into _not killing people_ because it's _just not worth it_, he's gotten his old quarters back and is expected to just be _fine_ with that. And _nobody_ will understand if he's _not_ fine with that, which of course he _won't be_, because it's too overwhelming and too much of a culture shock after everything, and I just don't want him to fuck it up because I'm not there."

"And do you not want him to fuck it up because you'll see it as a personal failure if your side project has a setback? Or do you actually, you know, give a shit about the asshole?"

Natasha purses her lips, unable to confirm, one way or the other.

"Or a little bit of both?"

"I guess you could say that," Natasha concedes. "Maybe."

Fury doesn't say anything, and she looks up at him, expecting an expression of disbelief, or concern, or _something_ other than that plain, contemplative stare.

"You know how Clint cares about me?" Natasha says, trying to justify it to him even though he hasn't asked her to do any such thing. "You know how he will fight for me until his last breath, because he's the one who lifted me up and brushed me off?"

"I know, Natasha, _I know_."

She falls silent, chewing on her lower lip, fingers tapping against the arm of her chair. "He's not like you think," she says in a rush. "He's not -"

"Like other guys?" Fury asks, eyebrow raised.

"Well, I think that's a pretty safe assumption but that aside, he's just…he could be so much _more_." She's not sure she can explain the complexities of Loki and all of his layers to Fury, not if he wants her on a plane by tomorrow night, and so she trails off, leaving her words hanging in the air sounding foolishly optimistic. She twists a loose lock of hair around her finger, and after she's spent enough time coiling it, she lets it spring free, then tucks it behind her ear. She wonders what Loki's up to right now, whether he's reading, or playing cards against himself, or if he's just sleeping to pass the time.

She hopes he hasn't locked himself in the bathroom. It wasn't her finest hour and she wouldn't wish it upon him. She wouldn't wish it upon anyone, actually.

"Make sure you're back by lunch time tomorrow," Fury says at last, a finality to his tone that ensures Natasha knows her time is up. "I need to brief you. You'll be flying out tomorrow, chartered plane, not private."

"Fine."

"Now, go and deal with this _transitional period_, all right?"

Natasha smiles briefly and stands, not wanting to waste a single second of the few hours she has left.

* * *

He's curled up in an armchair and halfway through his novel when she arrives. The moment he realises it's her, he ditches the book and stands up, before awkwardly remaining in the same spot as she draws closer. The situation is different now. Before, her sitting down next to him in his cell was their greeting. It was strange, but it worked. It just seemed to say _I'm here now, everything's fine_, and that was perfectly appropriate, no words exchanged, no uncomfortable, formal social gestures, just a sense of togetherness to which she gives a lot of the credit for Loki's progress. Now, however, the space is so open, and so regal, that perhaps he feels he has to return to his more princely demeanour, and behave in a way that's appropriate to his surroundings. If that's the case, then he's handling the transition better than anticipated. Or at least he's pretending he is.

Thor slips out quietly, and Natasha smiles wryly at his quick disappearance. He knows what's coming and he's making himself scarce, the coward. Loki, still blissfully unaware of his impending solitude, is far more interested in the bulging contents of Natasha's bag, the straps of which are cutting into her shoulder due to the weight of it. She dumps it on the sofa and sits down, Loki taking his seat in his armchair once more, his eyes still on the bag.

"Are you staying again?" he asks casually, his eyes meeting hers.

She shakes her head, chewing on the inside of her lower lip.

"Then what's that?" he asks, gesturing to the bag.

"I've been given an assignment," she says in a hurry, the words mashing together in a mess of syllables. He hears her loud and clear though, because the smile drops from his face and he slowly sinks back in his chair, the words filtering through his brain.

"And?" he says, his fingers tracing patterns on the arm of his chair. He's refusing to look at her, and Natasha knows this is just the tip of the iceberg. She hasn't even mentioned that she'll be away for weeks, yet, and she wonders whether he'll tell her to leave anyway when she breaks the news. She hopes not, but it's the sort of drastic reaction that she has come to expect from him when it comes to sensitive subject. She knows that she's a sensitive subject, especially after he revealed his fear that Odin might take her away from him.

"I'm gonna be out of contact for a while."

"So you won't be coming to see me?" The words are carefully pronounced, and Natasha swallows, trying to ignore the building tension.

"No, but you don't need me, right? You've got your room back, you can head out to the woods with Thor…"

For the first time, Loki looks at her. It's a withering gaze and she stops trying to find silver linings to the cloud that is her assignment.

"Why you? Why not one of the others?"

"Loki, they pay me a couple of hundred thousand dollars a year, I have to do _some_ work. I've not done a single thing except spend time with you, lately."

"Is it going to be dangerous?" he asks, his voice a little quieter.

"It's nothing I can't handle," she says vaguely. She won't tell him the nature of things, nor will she tell him that there's a pretty good chance she won't be coming back. She knows Fury was putting a brave face on things, but if he's refusing to send in Captain America, because he can't afford to lose the guy whose face is on the lunch boxes, then it's a big deal. It's been bothering her, how disposable she must be in comparison to the others, but then, she supposes, she's got so much red in her ledger that she's always going to be the obvious choice for the suicide missions. The others don't deserve that, they're _superheroes_.

"That means it's dangerous, doesn't it? That means you're worried."

Natasha laughs and shakes her head, but Loki doesn't buy it.

"I'm trained to handle these things," she assures him. "If I start worrying about myself, I lose focus."

"But it's getting to you, I can tell. This one's getting to you. You didn't give a damn when I attacked New York, but this, you're concerned over."

"It's a very high clearance level," Natasha concedes. "It's a little bit…"

"What?"

"It's not what I got into SHIELD for," she confesses at last.

"I thought you got into SHIELD to save your own skin," Loki replies.

Natasha allows herself a small smile. "Sort of. But also, it was less…questionable, morally. I'm not so much of a piece of meat to them."

"Except for now when they're sending you on a suicide mission," Loki says sourly. "Why can't one of the others go? Why not Banner? They can't kill him."

Natasha feels a chill run through her at his callous words. Shoot the monster, he can take it, it's fine. It doesn't matter that Bruce hasn't received any training in combat, stealth, weapons, surveillance or any of the other things that are needed for this assignment. He's bullet proof and he can smash stuff, and that's all that really matters.

"None of the others have the appropriate clearance level. And besides, they're too easily recognised. This is what I'm trained in, this is my area of expertise. If they wanted someone to hack a computer, they'd get Tony, if they wanted some thunder, they'd ask your brother. As it is, they need someone who can kill a man without making a sound."

"More red in your ledger then?"

Natasha ignores him and unzips her bag. "I have no idea how long I'm gonna be gone for, so I brought you these." She turns the bag upside down and a dozen paperbacks fall out onto the sofa. Loki gets up from his armchair and joins Natasha on the sofa, the books scattered between them, and starts sifting through the novels, frowning at covers and titles and occasionally reading the blurbs.

"I'm enjoying the one you brought last time," he says, glancing over to it. "It helps the time pass, anyway."

"Well I've got quite a range," Natasha tells him. "Some you might not like, others you will…" she trails off as she notices him staring at a particularly battered orange and beige paperback, the pages yellowed, corners dog-eared, spine bent and colour peeling.

"Are you trying to be funny?" he asks, turning the book around. She knows what it is before she sees the title. That particular copy came from the bookshelf in her apartment. It's one of the few personal effects she has. It was a last minute decision, grabbing it and shoving it into her bag just before she left. She can still remember the day she stole it, with crystal clear clarity. She was young, had no money, and it was a time when her head was all over the place. She'd been scraping by on manipulation tactics alone (mostly married men were her victims) and she had pilfered enough crumpled bank notes from unsuspecting pockets to be able to afford a hotel room for the night. She had gone to the book store to browse, to pass the time and look at all the things she could never afford, and then, on impulse, she had hidden the book under her jacket and walked out of the store, even having the audacity to smile at the owner as she passed.

She had stayed up all night reading, ignoring her heavy eyelids and frequent yawns. She had finished it by sunrise, and the following day, she was tracked down by a new organisation, who gave her food and a place to stay, and whispered ideals into her ear. She was so hungry, she hadn't even noticed how flawed their reasoning was, so tired that she hadn't questioned their motives, and so pleased to have the familiar feeling of a gun in her hand again, that she allowed herself to fall into the trap of believing she was a hero.

"It's a Russian classic," Natasha informs him. "Look after that copy, it's mine."

He blinks at the knowledge of this detail, and looks down at the book again, his eyes scanning the back cover. When he looks up at her, he's no longer smirking.

"Were you influenced by this?" he asks, holding the book up when he's finished reading. "Is this what you base yourself on?"

Natasha's words catch in her throat. "I…was in a bad place, and I was surrounded by bad people. It won't affect you like it affected me." Her eyes linger on the title, and she can't help but consider the weeks ahead. She's _removing_ somebody. Somebody of power, which ultimately means removing those around him as well, simply because they're in the way. Loki's right, more red in her ledger, even though she's just following orders. How much good will she need to do in order to wipe this particular blot out?

"So apart from _Crime and Punishment_," he says the title pointedly, apparently still on the fence as to whether she's trying to be a jerk or not. "What else do we have? Anymore from your own personal collection?"

Natasha shakes her head and stares into the fire, trying to focus on something that isn't the long list of sins in her ledger that she's still seeking redemption for. The flames lick the stone walls and crackle loudly, perhaps a little too much wood has gone on, or maybe Loki gave it a decent stoke before she arrived, but the more she loses herself in the orange flickers, the more she remembers the unpleasant, overly sanitary smell that goes hand in hand with hospital corridors. She remembers the thrill of seeing the coverage on the news later that day, can recall the taste of the champagne that was pushed upon her after a job well done.

"There's chocolate in there as well," she says, blinking a couple of times and looking away from the flames, She takes the bag and pulls out the large bars from the bottom, handing them to Loki. "Few different flavours too, just to mix it up a little. You should be good, right?"

Loki hesitates and puts the chocolate to one side, He looks down at his hands, now clasped in his lap, one leg jogging nervously as he chews on the inside of his lower lip.

"Yesterday was hard," he says softly. "As was today. And the only thing that kept me going was…" he trails off, but Natasha doesn't speak. Instead she waits for him to continue, and after he's pulled a loose thread out of the hem of his shirt, flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the arm of the sofa, and apparently found a selection of words that he doesn't consider to be too offensive, he says, "the knowledge that you'd be coming back."

"I was worried about you," she says quietly. "I know how hard it is to adjust, but you seem to have done a better job than I did."

"I'm in familiar surroundings," Loki reasons. "But they're still…" he shakes his head, unable to find the right word. Natasha knows exactly what he means however. In large spaces especially, the sheer size is overwhelming and yet, contradictorily, everything feels far too close. Even the _air_ feels close, which is a ridiculous notion, she knows. It takes a while for the eyes to adjust as well, after months upon months of staring at the same four walls, everything still, everything soundproofed, and then suddenly, there's a huge world full of colour and movement and noise and it's just nauseating and scary and it left Natasha shut in a bathroom when she was going through it.

At least Loki's managing to make proper use of his surroundings. Even if he's going stir crazy on the inside, his mask is one of calm.

"Can we play poker?" he asks, his voice rather small.

Natasha nods, and Loki pushes himself up from the sofa, heading over to his desk to collect the cards. Natasha clears the books away and creates a space on the cushion in between them large enough for a game. When Loki returns, he hasn't bothered bringing the jewels. She doesn't question it. He's a little subdued, perhaps because of the news she'll be gone for a while, or perhaps because of his transition back into the real world. Perhaps the poker is just a way to take his mind off of things, and can't be attributed to a rather childish desire to win at something before the day is out.

He begins to deal, but before he lays down their last cards, he says, "If I win, you have to come back."

"Loki, I'm coming back, no matter what, I'm coming back."

Loki eyes her disbelievingly then deals the last cards.

Natasha groans inwardly when she picks up her hand. Somehow, miraculously, she's been dealt a full house.

* * *

They eat in silence. When Thor brought the food, he didn't linger, not for a moment. He placed the silver tray on the table, exchanged a couple of words, his eyes flicking between Natasha and Loki, probably trying to judge whether she's broken the news to him yet, and then he departed, Loki's narrowed eyes focused on him until the door was closed and the sound of his footsteps had disappeared into the distance.

"While I"m gone," Natasha says, having decided that she can't handle any more tension. "I think you should head out with Thor, into the woods, some place else, I don't care. But I think it'd be good for you to get out at least every other day."

Loki pushes his food around his plate with his fork. He's not eaten much, and it concerns her, a strange, uncomfortable feeling swirling in her chest. She hates the idea that his appetite will dwindle to the point that Thor will have to get involved, and then a huge argument over nothing will ensue and set all of their progress back weeks.

"He's so boring though," Loki sighs. "I don't enjoy going outside with him."

"But don't you enjoy going outside?" Natasha asks. "He's only boring to you because he wants what's best for you and you're too stubborn to appreciate that."

Loki glowers at her comments, and sets down his fork. Whether he does this knowing that it will bother Natasha, or because he's simply had enough of his food, she can't quite put her finger on. She doesn't retract her comments however, because it's true, and it's something he needs to hear.

"Whether you like it or not, while I"m gone, he's gonna be your best friend. He fights your corner more often than you realise, so don't make it difficult for him. If you don't wanna go out, don't go out, but I think you ought to. Even if you just skip some stones for half an hour and come straight back. I'm not saying you have to go on a god damn family picnic."

Loki shudders at her last words, closing his eyes and shaking his head. Deciding that she's said enough, and unprepared to let her own food go cold just because Loki still can't get on with his big brother, she spears a piece of lamb on her fork and pops it into her mouth. After a few more mouthfuls, Loki, apparently deciding he's fighting a losing battle, picks up his own fork once more, but barely consumes anything, choosing instead to nibble at small morsels. Natasha refills his goblet with wine, hoping it will alleviate some of his anxiety about the coming weeks. After he gives up on his food entirely, he wraps his fingers gently around the stem of the goblet, running his index finger along the intricately designed ridges and swirls.

Natasha doesn't know whether she's hardening to the potency of Asgardian wine, or whether she's at the point where she's just stopped caring because this is, for all intents and purposes, her last supper, but it doesn't seem to go to her head as quickly as it used to. Maybe she's just got bigger things on her mind, and as she sips her wine, feeling the gentle heat wash through her from head to toe, she keeps her eyes on Loki, wondering whether she'll be coming back to the confident Loki from the cell, or the fractured, out-of-his-depth Loki that he's become since Odin's visit got the ball rolling on his transition back into his old life.

She hopes it's the former. But obviously, not in the cell.

For a moment, she foolishly pictures a return featuring two brothers who have managed to bond over some common interest, some old, fond memory, a dumb joke or something, _anything_ over which they can find common ground. It's a stupidly optimistic idea, but it's something to hope for, something to work towards. She doesn't believe Loki is so broken that it can't be achieved. It might take years, decades, or even centuries, but the bonus of immortality is that they really _do_ have all the time in the world to work on it. And, as long as Thor hangs on to the belief that Loki is worth saving, which Natasha knows he will, no matter what, then maybe, one day, things will be okay.

"You're quiet," Loki comments, resting his chin on the heel of his palm.

"Just thinking," Natasha replies, putting her goblet down and placing the plates back on the tray before pushing it to one side.

"About?"

"How nice it'd be to come back and discover that you don't need me."

"Why?" Loki demands. "Are you getting sick of me? Go back to your precious Midgard if I'm boring you."

"You not needing me is a good thing. Just because you don't need me, it doesn't mean I'll stop coming. It just means that I won't need to worry about you when I'm not here. It'll mean that you're happier, it'll mean that things with your family will be better, it'll mean that you'll be on track to becoming a free man sooner, rather than later, if at all." As she speaks, Loki's glare softens, and he slumps back in his seat, his expression still sulky. She knows he hates it when people want what's best for him, but she finds that she can't help it. She'd be so happy if that door was unlocked for good, if he could come and go as he pleases, if he could head into the woods and skim stones any time he likes, without the need for a chaperone.

"Do you really have to go?"

"Yes."

"Tonight?"

"I have to be at headquarters by lunchtime tomorrow," she sighs. "And I need to pack. But I guess I can stay tonight if you really want me to."

"Not if you've got better things to be doing," he says, looking away from her and folding his arms across his stomach.

"I'm not saying that…"

"Then what are you saying?"

"If you want me to stay, I'll stay."

"_Fine_."

"That doesn't sound much like you want me to stay," Natasha says, taking another sip of her wine.

"I don't want you to if you'd rather be elsewhere." He says each word carefully, heavily weighted, as though it's taking every ounce of his patience to have this conversation civilly. It's almost the same tone he uses when he's forcing himself to get along with Thor.

"I never said that I'd rather be elsewhere. You're jumping to conclusions, _again._"

"Well maybe you _should_ go then," Loki says sulkily. "If I"m being so unreasonable."

Natasha rolls her eyes and doesn't indulge him any further. He's just being argumentative because he's upset that she's leaving, and is torn between the idea of keeping her around as long as possible to stave off just a few more hours of boredom, or kicking her out now, and tearing off the proverbial plaster and getting used to the idea of being alone.

Minutes pass with silence hanging in the air between them. The fire continues to crackle gently on the other side of the room, colouring everything around it with a cosy tint of amber. She'll miss this place when she's away. She doesn't know what her assignment will entail, whether it'll be living it up in five star hotels and parading around in diamonds and low cut dresses in order to gain favour, or whether she'll be roughing it in harsh terrain, fighting off extreme weather, and scraping by on dehydrated food packs.

She hopes for the former. She's always looked good in diamonds.

Loki gets up and wanders back over to the sofa, curling up on one end of it, and opening his book. For a while, Natasha stays where she is, drinking enough wine so that her head starts swim, just a little, and she finds herself not caring about what lays ahead for her. Occasionally, she hears him turn a page, and when she grows tired of the hard wooden chair that she's on, she rises, refilling both her goblet and Loki's with the last of the wine, then goes to join him on the sofa. She passes him his goblet, and he takes it without looking up, his eyebrows knitted together in a frown, apparently engrossed in a particularly absorbing scene. It's perhaps ten minutes later when he seems to acknowledge the goblet in his hand, his eyes meeting Natasha's briefly over the top of his book, then murmurs a word of thanks, taking a sip and setting his goblet down on the floorboards. He flips over another page, and Natasha decides to stretch out, making herself comfortable, the base of her goblet resting on her stomach, her head propped up on the arm.

She decides, despite Loki's argumentativeness, that she will stay. If this is to be her last night in comfort, then she'd rather do it in style, than go back to her cold, empty apartment. Maybe she really will move this year, maybe she'll get somewhere with a fireplace, with smaller, more separate rooms. Maybe she'll get herself a home. She's never really had one of those before. The idea of being rooted has always intimidated her, though she would never admit it. She can adapt to all kinds of circumstances, and comfort's never really been an issue for her, but now she's older, now she has people in her life who care about her, and she cares about in return, the idea of settling (to an extent) doesn't seem as terrible. She doesn't feel like she'll be on the run from SHIELD at any point, so maybe, at long last, she's found her place in the world.

Between the heat of the fire and the effects of the wine, as well as Loki's preference for silence while he reads, Natasha soon finds herself dozing off, her eyelids heavy, the grip on her goblet becoming fainter and fainter.

When she wakes, she's managed to slither even further down the sofa, her top having ridden up to reveal a narrow strip of skin just above the waistband of her jeans. Her goblet is on the floor, next to Loki's, and somehow, her legs have ended up stretched out across his lap, one of his hands resting just above her ankle. She tugs her top down and sits up, resting her elbow against the arm of the sofa and frowning as she looks around.

"How long was I out for?"

"About six chapters," Loki murmurs, his hand leaving her ankle momentarily to turn his page before returning to the exact same spot. She considers moving, conscious of how irritating he must have found it to have her spreading herself out across his sofa and encroaching on his space, disturbing his reading, but there is something in his touch that makes her stay. It's a strange sensation, and even stranger still when she considers that it's Loki, of all people causing it, but right now, she can't think of a single place she'd rather be. Maybe she loves the escapism of being in Asgard, or maybe it is just that Loki is…Loki, and not in the way that they'd all assumed. Either way, she feels almost happy, and to have that constant, physical connection sets her at ease a little more about the coming weeks. On the surface, she's sure he'll be fine. A few hiccups, perhaps, a few arguments with Thor, but nothing major. Deep down though, she's worried. If one thing sets him off in a big way and she's not there to talk sense into him, to pull him back from the edge, if his initial reaction is to do the thing that will cause the most upset to Thor and/or Odin, (as is likely, should anything bad happen) then he could be back in that cell before he can blink.

It only takes him another half an hour to finish off the book, and when he does, he closes it carefully and places it on the floor, next to the wine goblets.

"Good read?"

He nods. "We don't have anything like that here. We have tales that have been handed down the generations but nothing…"

"Nothing for fun?"

"No," he says. "Fun certainly isn't allowed."

"Sounds lame," Natasha says, sitting up and trying (and failing) to reach for her goblet. Loki rolls his eyes at her and gets it for her, pressing it into her hand, his fingers warm as they brush hers.

"Did you know the book featured a beautiful Russian spy?" he asks, smiling coyly.

"_Really_?" Natasha sighs. "They're still writing about those kinds of girls?"

"This one, apparently, had _an exterior as cold as iron, but a face that resembled that of a perfect, porcelain doll_."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "I'll get you something a little classier next time," she tells him, taking a sip of her wine. "I bet the guy's never even _met _a Russian girl, let alone a spy. He's probably done all of research by watching James Bond movies."

Loki gives her a blank look at this, and she realises that any pop culture references are even more lost on him than they are on Steve, as if that were possible.

"Never mind," she says quickly. "It's all bullshit though, it's not really like that."

"So you've never used your feminine wiles to manipulate a man in a position of power?"

Natasha smiles wryly at this. "If they have a weakness, I admit, I'll exploit it to its fullest potential."

"But how far do you go in the line of duty? Because in _that story -_"

"It all depends entirely on who you work for and how good at your job you are," Natasha says, cutting him off before he can spill any of the details. She's not entirely keen on him having this idea of gorgeous Russian femme fatales drinking vodka and sleeping with the enemy (or the hero, depending on which side you're reading from) in order to get the job done. Not since she actually became herself, an almost-human in her own right, has she ever had to go that far. She's preyed on those whose eyes and hands wander far too often for her liking, but if she hadn't used the oldest trick in the book to gain information, she would have ended up using knives, and that's always messier.

"So," Loki says, before taking a sip of his wine and then placing the goblet back down on the floor. "This mission. Is it _top secret_?"

Natasha can't help but smirk at his phrasing. Clearly he's enjoyed the book, but she hopes he realises the line between fiction and reality, and that apart from the fact that hardly any of the spy novel classics are based on any real knowledge of spying, they're all set in the picturesque fifties and sixties, back when espionage was a classy occupation, reserved only for those head hunted from the top academies. These days, it's all dirty, hacky, computer work. All about who's got the biggest guns and who can fire them from furthest away. It's not like the old days, when she could walk into a bar in any city in the world and wind up sitting next to the richest man in the room just because of her posture and her dress. Now, people want to know every detail; there are finger print and retina scans to get around, electronic pass codes, photo recognition software and those few shaky youtube clips with a couple of million hits that just so happen to show someone who looks very much like herself somersaulting onto a flying Chitauri bike.

There are hardly any secrets anymore, which means she has to work harder, and that's fine, she's always happy to up her game. But for things to get messed up by some nerd interrupting her mid conversation and saying _hey, aren't you that chick in the Avengers? _can be quite irritating. She hopes that wherever she's going, it's the middle of nowhere, that the Avengers are an unknown force. She knows there's a slim chance of that happening, and if it's human experimentation going on at this place, then the Avengers were probably a great source of inspiration. She shudders at the thought, and is just glad that Bruce doesn't have the clearance to know about this. He'd tear those responsible into shreds without a moment's hesitation.

"You know I can't tell you anything," Natasha replies, her eyes focused on the hand that is so comfortable on her calf. She can feel the warmth of him through the thick material of her jeans, the constant changes in pressure as he fidgets, fingers tracing patterns, or tapping absentmindedly, or his thumb running back and forth along the stitching on her inside leg. It's distracting, or maybe she's just had too much wine. Either way, she finds it difficult to keep on track with the conversation, his words fading in and out of focus.

"Not even a little something?"

"I don't _know_ anything," Natasha tells him. "My briefing's not until tomorrow."

"You have a briefing?"

"Yes."

"Do you have to shred the files after you've read them?"

Natasha sighs and has another glug of wine, far too tired to indulge his overactive imagination. "You know it's nothing like what you just read. Nothing at all."

"Well I hope not, the beautiful Russian girl gets executed by her ex-comrades."

Natasha closes her eyes and ignores him. She slides even further down on the sofa, not caring that her top gets caught again and bares some of her stomach, By the time she's comfortable, Loki's hand is resting on her knee. She smiles, carefully places her wine back on the floor and folds her arms across her stomach.

"You could just _not go_."

Natasha shakes her head.

"Why not? You could just stay. Fury can't reach you here."

"And who would bring you chocolate?" she asks.

"Thor. If you tell him it'll make me happy."

Natasha opens her eyes and scowls at him. "You really are a little shit sometimes, you know that?"

Loki smirks, but doesn't hold it. Apparently he realises she didn't mean it in an endearing way, and his amusement soon fades. "The point still stands. You could stay here. With me."

"No."

Loki huffs, his hand stilling on Natasha's knee.

"Why does it matter so much?"

"I know two things about this assignment," Natasha says, pushing herself up, realising that he's not going to leave the subject alone. "One, I know I'm gonna kill a guy."

At this, Loki's expression darkens.

"Two, I'm gonna make sure he suffers." She holds his gaze, refusing to blink and let him win the impromptu stare down. She will not feel bad about doing her job, especially when that same job has continued to pay her a full wage while she lazes about in another realm eating fine food and getting drunk on seriously strong wine.

"What about that blot on the blank piece of paper? What about everything you said to _me_?"

"It all still stands. But you should know, that given we let Thor take you back to Asgard, that we're not in the business of killing people in their sleep. However, sometimes, there are people who are so abhorrent, who cause so much suffering to innocent people, and who are so well protected by law that the only possible way to stop the red filling up their own ledger is to close the book on them."

"But -"

"What I said to you wasn't a lie. It's when it comes down to your own choice that you have to consider things, and because you _don't_ work for a government agency, you _always_ have a choice."

"But you have the choice to not go," Loki argues. "You don't have to kill, they can't force you."

"They're not forcing me. I accepted the assignment. This guy is scum, and by dealing with him, we'll be saving the lives of innocent people. That's what matters, to me, at least."

"Is that definite? Or is that just what they've told you?"

"Let it go, Loki. I'm leaving tomorrow and I'll be back when I'm done. End of story."

He doesn't say another word on the matter, and instead, lifts Natasha's legs off of him, stands, then heads towards his sleeping quarters, pulling the door open roughly. It hits the wall noisily and rebounds as he strides through it, and Natasha rolls her eyes. She downs the last of her wine, sighs, then follows him. He pulls his shirt off, throws it onto the nearest chair, then climbs into bed, pulling the covers up high around him.

"Do you want me to go?" she asks, leaning against the doorframe. It's the last time she's prepared to ask, and she really doesn't want to leave things on a sour note with him. She knows it's all just because he can't convince her to stay, and he's taking it as a personal insult, as though she'd much rather be killing billionaires who think it's fun to experiment on human beings, rather than spending time with him.

"No," he says, his voice sulky and muffled by the pillows.

"You know I'm not going because I prefer to be there. I'm going because it's my _job_, okay? That's the reason."

"If you say so."

"I'll come back as soon as I can. You _know_ I will."

Loki doesn't say anything, but he pulls down the covers on the other side of the bed, revealing the soft white sheets beneath. She doesn't need any more of an invitation than that, and so she goes to join him, toeing off her shoes then she slides into bed next to him. Before she realises what he's doing, he's got his arms around her, pulling her close, her back against his chest, his chin resting against her shoulder. His arms are locked fast around her, his breath warm and ticklish against her neck.

"It's just so awful when you're not here," he says, and Natasha can feel his lips form the words against her neck. She bites her lip, trying not to react, knowing, in her heart of hearts that she is just his current distraction, and he doesn't want anybody else to play with her. That's why he was so upset when he thought there was something going on with her and Thor, and that's why he's so upset now, because he thinks his favourite play thing is going to be fucking her way to the top of the shadiest research centre in the world in order to kill the guy in charge.

"I know," she says softly, placing her hand on top of his. "But you need to learn to handle it. Thor's here to help you, it has _never _been more important that you understand that. He is here because he _cares about you_. I know you don't like it, but it's true. So maybe just let him a little closer."

Loki sighs. "It'll just make the days go slower," he tells her. "He won't let me sleep through it and he'll insist that we do things and somehow, we'll be out for hours and hours and hours and when we get back, it won't even be lunch time. It's _horrendous_. And yet," he pulls her even closer, until she is flush against him. "When you're here, the day speeds by and before I know it, you're gone again."

"Maybe I can stay a while when I come back?" Natasha suggests. "Make up for lost time?"

"Maybe," Loki says, and then he presses his lips gently against the skin of Natasha's neck. She freezes, her breath catching her throat, and when she doesn't protest, his lips graze against her jaw. Natasha bites her lip and closes her eyes, trying to think straight. It's not easy, the wine, while very intoxicating, isn't affecting her half as much as the sensation of his lips brushing against her, and combined the two are completely impeding her judgement.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" she breathes, suppressing a sigh as one of his hands slides under her top, caressing her waist, his movements fluid, expert, but at her words of doubt, he pauses.

"I don't know about that," he says silkily. "But I'm sure it'll be good."

She smiles at his honesty for a second, then whispers one word.

"Okay."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **An important note this time guys. The end of this chapter is fairly dark in terms of content. Not for the faint hearted. Don't believe in giving things away, but let's just say Natasha does some things which are thoroughly not recommended. Just a heads up for those of you who might find certain things difficult to read.

* * *

**Turn**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"You're late."

"I'm sorry," she says breathlessly, dumping her bag on the desk and collapsing into the chair opposite Fury's. Her chest heaves as she tries to haul in oxygen, her lungs burning. She's getting too old for this.

"When did you get back from Asgard?" Fury asks, his eye narrowed as he surveys her, his chin raised.

"About twenty minutes ago," she tells him, inhaling deeply. She ran all the way here from her apartment, having thrown a few belongings into a bag and hoping they'd be enough. With any luck, anything else she needs, SHIELD will provide, or, as long as she's not shipped off to the middle of nowhere, she can buy when she arrives.

"I told you -"

"There's a time difference," Natasha lies. "Haven't really worked out what it is yet, it varies. Apparently something to do with the seasons on Asgard and -"

"Bull. Shit."

She stops talking, realising that she should know better than to lie to Fury. He's the only one who's ever been able to see straight through her. She tugs her sleeves down, conscious of the narrow bruises scattered over her forearms. They're only light, and they don't hurt, but even so, it's probably best to keep them covered, lest he make assumptions. Fury shakes his head then opens one of his desk drawers, takes out a file, then tosses it to her. She catches it, opens the cover, and is greeted by a photograph of a man with a thick black moustache, and bulbous nose.

_Name: Sergei Yanayev._

_Current Location: Moscow._

Natasha closes her eyes. "You didn't say I was going back _there_."

"I thought it might influence your decision," Fury tells her calmly. "When it really shouldn't."

She lets out a huff and opens her eyes, absorbing all the information on the page in front of her. He's a billionaire, naturally, has serious stakes in all the major utility suppliers in Russia, his brother is one of the President's most senior advisors, and his father was a highly decorated General. He has a fierce looking wife, four children, and a mansion on the outskirts of Moscow.

"If we take him out," Natasha begins, "Is that gonna stop the whole process?"

"We want you to take out the entire research centre as well."

He has the good grace to look mildly ashamed. Natasha is one hundred per cent sure that he knew all of this when he first mentioned the mission, knew just how dirty the assignment was. Now, it all becomes clear. She's the only one who's dirty enough herself to be able to accept such an assignment. She's the only one who can justify the killing of a group of people by considering all the potential lives saved. There's never any hard evidence that lives have been saved, but when she can reasonably choose to believe that, she really fucking goes for it. It's the only thing that keeps her sane. It's the only way she'll ever add more red to her ledger, if she's wiping even more out at the same time. Not the most effective means of redemption, but one of the few ways she knows how.

"Apparently, the mentally ill are a commodity, in certain circles in Russia," Fury sighs. "Our sources have found evidence that Yanayev has been _buying_ psychiatric patients and taking them to his research centre. After that, they've not been seen again."

"So how d'you know what's going on in the research centre?" Natasha asks, looking up from the file. "How d'you know he's _stripping them of their humanity_?"

"You heard of Bocharov?"

"Yeah," Natasha says. She's never met the guy, but he's one of SHIELD's finest. Ex-KGB, master of hand to hand combat, can disappear in the blink of an eye and, according to legend, took out seventeen men in less than thirty seconds on one assignment. It's a record that Natasha has attempted to beat several times herself, but the closest she's ever come is fifteen, before she ran out of men. He's nearing retirement age, and in his time has, apparently, seen stuff that would give even the hardiest of souls nightmares for the rest of their life.

"He's in counselling. He saw what was happening, raised the alarm with his superiors, and they haven't gotten a word out of him since."

"Fuck."

"Yeah. His bosses asked for you. Apparently you're still quite the legend back home."

"It's _not_ my home," Natasha says through gritted teeth, her fist clenching, nails digging into the flesh of her palm. She tries to swallow down the rush of heat that shoots through her at his use of the word _home_, and ends up biting the inside of her lower lip to keep herself from saying anything she might regret.

"Whatever," Fury says dismissively. "You're gonna need to play this one out carefully. Yanayev is overseeing all of the work undertaken at the facility, so if you can get inside, he shouldn't be too hard to find."

"There's a but…" Natasha sighs, then her eyes meet Fury's calm gaze. "Isn't there?"

"Getting in…" he says, pulling out aerial photographs, maps and blue prints. "Titanium walls surrounding the place, thirty feet high, and they go about twenty feet underground. Guards are equipped with semi-automatics, retina scans needed for access -"

"So how did Bocharov get in?" Natasha asks.

"Posed as an expert on molecular redesign," Fury tells her. "Which was all working fine until he saw the subjects. Then he threw up, and they tossed him out on the street."

"So they don't know we're onto them?" She tries not to consider the fact that Bocharov, a living legend in his own right, who, if he were a few years younger, would definitely have been worthy of joining the Avengers initiative, was so badly affected by what he found in the research facility. She wonders whether it's a personal thing, maybe he saw something that hit a nerve, something a little too close to home, or whether the work going on inside the centre really is the stuff of nightmares.

"Not as far as we know," Fury says, but it's a pointless answer. _Not as far as we know_ really just translates as _I don't know, but I really fucking hope not_. It's not the most comforting information she's received, that's for certain. Though none of what she's discovered so far particularly fills her with confidence.

It's with a heavy heart that she realises the only way she's going to be getting in to that facility, and when Fury meets her eyes over the top of the file, she knows he's already thought of it too, but didn't want to say it aloud. She doesn't say a word, and lets her eyes slide back down to the information in front of her, committing every last detail to memory,

Fury slides a passport across the desk, and she instantly recognises the familiar burgundy and gold design. She flips it open, finding a picture of herself and the name _Irina Dezhnyov_. Apparently, she's twenty six years old, and this is the first thing Natasha's found to smile about throughout this whole meeting.

"You're getting younger every year," Fury says with a smile.

Natasha manages a small chuckle, and tucks the passport into her pocket.

"There's a car waiting for you," Fury says softly. "Flight's at four thirty."

Natasha nods, hands the file back to Fury, then takes her phone, purse, and keys out of her bag. She sets them on the table and Fury takes them, opening one of the lower drawers on his desk, placing them inside, then closes and locks the drawer. He passes her a cheap looking purse, which she opens and inspects. Inside are a few thousand roubles, a dog eared photograph of a small girl with red hair and two proud looking parents, and a couple of membership cards to various inane organisations.

"And here I was hoping for diamonds and champagne," she sighs, opening her bag and chucking the purse inside.

Fury laughs, but there's little humour to it. There's a morbid atmosphere hanging between them, and Natasha is more aware than she'd like to be that this could be the last conversation they ever have. But then, she supposes, that's true of any conversation. She could walk out of here and get hit by a bus and Yanayev will carry on until somebody else picks up the baton. Even so, despite her long and not particularly wordy farewell with Loki this morning, she can't help but feel like there are still some things she'd like to say, should she not get the chance later. She opens her mouth to speak, but then decides against it. She doesn't want Fury jumping to any (correct) conclusions.

"Out with it," he says, his tone firm.

Natasha hesitates, then slowly, the words start to spill from her mouth. "If I don't come back…"

"You're coming back," Fury says, and it's not even a supportive, confidence boosting comment. It's an order.

"But if I _don't_. For whatever reason."

Fury sighs and looks away. Apparently he gets through the day by refusing to acknowledge such an eventuality. Maybe that's why he felt okay about withholding important information from her until after she'd accepted the assignment. Now, more than ever, it's important for him to accept the reality that she's not invincible, and even though she's damn good at her job, she's going unarmed into a centre where they're experimenting with molecular redesign. She's expected to bring the entire place down with no support, no weapons, and without getting shot, or worse. She's positive there's a way, but she knows that it most likely relies on a hell of a lot of luck, and Lady Luck has never looked too kindly on her. Perhaps this time, perhaps with this assignment, she will have atoned enough of her sins to earn herself a little bit of good fortune.

If she can pull down the building, she'll be happy with that. If she manages to escape the building before it meets its demise, even better. She's not hopeful on that last one though.

"Break it to him gently, okay?" she says, her voice soft. "He cares a lot about me. He didn't want me to leave and…he's kinda worried I'm not coming back."

"Does he really have such little faith in you?"

"Don't give him details," Natasha continues, pretending she hasn't heard him. "Be _nice_. And tell him…" she trails off, wondering how to put into words that strange, swirling feeling in her chest that makes her feel sick to her stomach about the prospect of getting on that plane. "Tell him if he fucks up, I'm gonna haunt his ass for all eternity."

Perfect.

Fury's lips twitch into a smile. He stands, his hands resting on his hips, and Natasha gets up too, slinging her bag over her shoulder and adjusting the strap so it's sitting comfortably. Fury holds out a hand, and Natasha shakes it, giving him one last faint smile.

"I would say good luck," he says. "But you've never really needed that."

Natasha's smile becomes wry, one of her eyebrows quirking with scepticism, and she turns on her heel, exiting the office, finally having entered her assignment headspace, where nothing can touch her, and all emotions are switched off. That is, until she runs into Clint in the corridor.

"You heading off?" he asks, glancing at her bag then back at her face. He's wearing his gym clothes, his t-shirt drenched with sweat, a towel slung around his shoulders. She can feel the heat radiating off of him, and wonders whether he's been sparring with Steve.

Natasha bites her lip. According to protocol, Clint shouldn't even _know_ there's an assignment at all, let alone that she's about to fly out and begin it.

"Fury said you'd be away for a while," he tells her, as always managing to read her like a book.

"Oh…" she says vaguely. "Right. Yeah, it's nothing major, just a couple of weeks and then I'll be back."

"Nothing major?" Clint says doubtfully, his eyebrow raised. "Then how come it's a level seven? Or eight? Or whatever damn level it is that you're on."

"The car's waiting," Natasha says lamely, readjusting her bag strap on her shoulder, choosing to look at the floor instead of at Clint. Ever since she was promoted to level seven, prior to the Avengers initiative, she's hated the distance that it puts between them. It doesn't come into play often, but when it does, she feels awkward, even guilty. Clint's been here far longer than she has, and she wouldn't be here, wouldn't be _alive_ were it not for him. And then, for some reason, Fury has to go and promote her above him.

"Yeah, yeah," Clint sighs, pulling her into a one-armed hug that she knows he needs more than she does. "Go, do some shooting, come back in one piece and we'll head out for a drink or something."

"Sounds good," Natasha says, forcing a smile. "I'll see you soon."

She heads for the stairs, preferring the option to keep moving as opposed to taking the lift, which will guarantee an awkward conversation with whichever occupant she ends up with. This way, she can just brush past people on her way down, her rush evident, and they won't say a word to her. She's relieved when she makes it outside, and after all her anxiety over the upcoming challenges, she just wants to get on with it. She gets into the sleek black saloon waiting for her and fastens her seatbelt, the car pulling away smoothly and joining the traffic.

Maybe she feels calmer now she's said her goodbyes and dealt with Loki. She can't afford to worry about him now, even though she knows that she will, constantly. She hopes he's out with Thor, or at the very least, that he's reading one of his paperbacks and making his way slowly through his first bar of chocolate. She made him swear to her that he'd try to be less argumentative, no matter how shitty he's feeling, and, with a little bit of persuasion, and the promise of rewards upon her return, he had grudgingly agreed to make more of an effort with Thor. She knows it will be the bare minimum, the absolute least he has to do in order for Thor to acknowledge it and comment on it to Natasha, just so he gets his rewards, but she doesn't care. Any improvement is still an improvement, and even though his effort might not be genuine in its roots, that's not her problem right now. What she cares about is making sure he gets through these few weeks without losing his mind or landing himself back in his cell after an almighty tantrum.

She rests her head against the glass, staring out at the rows and rows of cars, all packed in far too close, horns being tooted for no real reason. Their progress is slow, her driver anxiously glancing down at the clock on the dashboard every few minutes. Once they make it onto the freeway however, the journey seems to take no time at all, and before she knows it, she's standing in front of departures, ticket in hand, and making the mental transition back to Russian.

Thankfully, the girl on the check in desk is Russian herself, and so Natasha doesn't have to go through the rather embarrassing scene of pretending she's not understanding a word the girl's saying. She doesn't have the patience for playing dumb. She gets far too frustrated and wants to hurry things along, but from here on out she should, hopefully, be dealing with Russians.

It's been so long since she's been out on an assignment that she finds herself having blind moments of panic when she can't find her phone. She pats down her pockets, before realising that it's locked in Fury's desk, which means no texting, no little games, and no internet. She's relieved when the call to board comes, but studiously waits for the announcement in Russian before she looks up at the ceiling, as though it'll make the announcement more audible, then picks up her bag and heads for the gate.

Happily, they accept roubles on the flight, and she gets through a few shots of vodka before she curls up in her seat, head resting against the window, and tries to catch up on some of the sleep she missed out on the previous night. She doesn't have much luck however, and so she stares out of the glass and the rain whips past, her elbow braced against the arm rest to counter the frequent turbulence, and when the food comes, she almost sends it back. She's been so spoiled with Asgardian cuisine, but it's probably time she got used to wilted vegetables, soggy potatoes and unidentifiable meat that looks like it's never seen an animal in its life. The bland, gloopy sauce doesn't make it much better, and the chocolate pudding in the small plastic cup tastes of nothing. She washes it all down with another vodka, and, ignoring the nausea building in her stomach, she closes her eyes and forces herself to sleep.

* * *

The first thing she does is find the research facility. She treks over the rocky, snow covered ground, her scarf covering the lower half of her face to keep the wind at bay. By the time she reaches it, her feet are numb inside her boots, her joints creaking with the cold. There are watchtowers stationed at various points around the high dark wall that stretches far into the overcast sky. She can just make out the silhouettes of guards, gazing out across the land, most likely frozen to the bone and bored to death. Beyond that, she can't see anything else at all. There is a wide track that leads to the only set of gates, which are constantly manned by armed guards, and thorough checks are carried out on vehicles before they'll even consider allowing them entry. When a frosty four by four pulls up, the driver speaks briefly with the guard and within moments, the gates are open. Apparently, there are some exceptions to the rules, and she'd wager that the man sitting in the back of the car is Yanayev himself. Natasha cranes her neck to try and get a good look at the world that lies beyond the gates, but they close so quickly that she doesn't get to see anything other than the back of the four by four.

Suddenly, she hears a twig crack in the distance. She freezes, her skin erupting in goosebumps, and turns her head, trying to spot where the sound came from. Mingling with the whistling of the wind, she hears mumbling, thick, muffled voices conversing in slow, comfortable tones. Between the branches, she sees them, and quickly and silently hops her way over to the nearest, thick trunked tree, employing a few of her old ballet techniques to avoid twigs and loose stones. She holds her breath as they pass, hoping against hope that they don't notice any unaccounted for footprints, but they're far too wrapped up in their conversation to be able to notice anything.

"No, no, _she_ left him, and _then_ he hooked up with Isolde," the first guard says, his voice slightly croaky, as though he's nursing a sore throat.

"I heard different, but then I heard it from him," the second replies, his tone relaxed despite the harsh weather and the semi-automatic that he's cradling in his arms.

"You know how proud he is. He thinks us all stupid enough to believe him, but we know the truth. My sister was at school with Isolde you know."

Natasha rolls her eyes and carefully makes her way back through the trees, not daring to make a sound, just in case there are more guards patrolling the ground. She occasionally takes cover behind larger tree trunks, her eyes scanning the surrounding areas for any signs of life, but thankfully, there is nothing. It's something of a relief when she reaches the road again, and she walks as quickly as she can, back to the outskirts of the city, the occasional car whipping past her, spraying her with slush and mud.

On her way into the city, she passes the wrought iron fence that surrounds the psychiatric hospital, barbed wire coiling its way around the top, and keeps walking, her hair tucked under her hood, past a couple of grubby looking cafés, a newsagents and a butchers, until she arrives in a slightly busier part of the city, cars more frequent, more expensive, the people a little better dressed.

Natasha keeps her eyes peeled, drinking in every detail of her surroundings, every shop, every set of traffic lights, every narrow hotel front, and when she gets as far as the shiny new-built hospital, with huddles of people wrapped up in thick coats outside, their heads bowed against the wind, hands shaking as they take each drag on their cigarettes, she decides she's walked far enough. The darkening sky is an inky blue now, and the snow is picking up, the wind pulling at her coat, and so she heads into the nearest bar, orders a vodka, then goes to find a seat in a quiet corner.

She knows she needs to get drunk, and knows that she needs to keep enough roubles for a place to stay tonight, so she sips her vodka slowly, resolving to get a cheap bottle from the nearest store when she leaves. She doesn't order any food, knowing that it'll slow her drinking down, and so she goes hungry, scowling at the snow building on the window ledge.

She tries not to think of Loki as she drinks, tries not to picture him curled up in bed, awake and alone, tossing and turning until the small hours. She wonders if he ate alone, or if he ate at all. Maybe he, like her, has favoured a liquid dinner this evening, but somehow, she thinks he's handling things okay. Something tells her that he won't have broken yet. Maybe after a week, depending on how things go with Thor, but tonight, he'll be okay. All she can do is get on with her job and try and make her way back to him as soon as she can. She already misses him, which is _ridiculous_, because not only was she with him twelve hours ago, but she never misses anyone. It's not in her nature to pine after people, and so it comes as a most unpleasant surprise when she finds her chest aching for Loki.

She stubbornly decides that it's less because she misses him and more because she misses the entire situation. She hates being back in Russia. She constantly feels like she's looking over her shoulder, like someone will recognise her at any moment and stab her in the back without a moment's warning.

"You're too pretty to be drinking alone."

Natasha doesn't look up, and when a man in his thirties with messy brown hair and a scrubby beard slides into the seat opposite her, she sighs pointedly.

"You're empty. You want another?"

"Vodka," she says, without looking at him. If he's going to encroach on her personal space and throw cheap lines at her, the least he can do is refill her glass. He takes it and heads over to the bar, returning a few minutes later with a fresh helping of their finest vodka.

"So what happened?" he asks, making himself comfortable, his arms folded on the table, one hand enclosed around his beer bottle. "You look like you've had a rough day."

"Oh you know, just thinking about life," Natasha replies boredly. "And what a steaming pile of dog shit it is."

"Tell me about it," he says, smiling at her. "What's your name?"

"Irina."

"That's a beautiful name."

Natasha rolls her eyes again. He's perfectly harmless, but he's taking her for a fool, and that, she doesn't appreciate. She's not a fool, and she doesn't consider Irina to be a fool either. Damaged, yes, attention seeking too, but not a fool.

"I'm Daniil," he tells her, regardless of the fact that she hasn't bothered to ask. When she doesn't make any sign of acknowledgement, he takes a nervous sip of his beer, bites his lip, then continues. "So what's getting you down?" he asks.

Natasha gives him a withering look that she faintly thinks would put Loki's to shame. "How long have you got?"

"This place doesn't close for another couple of hours."

Natasha sighs, swirling her vodka around in the bottom of her glass, ice cubes clinking, then leans back in her chair. "Well first off, I have no family, which automatically makes every single god damn thing fifty times more difficult." She pauses to take a sip of vodka, then continues. "You know, I see people when they get down, and their parents or their brothers and sisters pick them up and dust them off and help them to keep going."

Daniil nods, his brown eyes tinged with sympathy.

"But my parents died in a fire when I was kid. So there's _no one_."

"I'm sorry," Daniil says softly. "That's awful."

"And then," Natasha says, pausing again to knock back some of her vodka. Daniil's eyes widen when she doesn't flinch at the burn of the alcohol, and she refrains from smirking, because she knows Irina is far too wrapped up in her own problems to be noticing anything about Daniil. She's probably forgotten his name already. "My lousy boyfriend got himself thrown into jail last week."

Daniil's eyebrows rise high on his forehead. "Really? What for?"

Natasha skews her lips from side to side, fiddling with her glass, her eyes avoiding his. "He got mixed up in the wrong crowd, got in too deep…killed a few people. He's not gonna be out for a long long while." She throws back the rest of her vodka then slides the glass across the table to Daniil, who fumbles, but manages to catch it just before it topples off of the table and crashes to the floor. Dutifully, he rises from his seat and heads back to the bar, returning even faster than before with more vodka.

"Sounds like you're having a really hard time," Daniil says unhelpfully. Natasha ignores him, and carries on listing her complaints. The lies come so easily, and it helps her get her story straight in her head, if she lays everything out in front of this poor guy who was only looking for a date with a pretty girl. To give him his credit, he hasn't run from her sob story, and he has kept her glass full, so he can't be too bad. She even thinks that he's probably given up hope of sleeping with her, and is only still hanging around because he feels bad for her. It's not Nobel Prize material, but it's nice all the same.

"I lost my job too," she says, and she sees the slight panic behind his eyes at the prospect of there being even more to her list than previously imagined.

"What did you do?" he asks softly.

"I was a ballerina," she tells him. It's the only thing she could have convincingly been. She knows nothing about retail, or offices or any of that real life shit that so many people are experts on. She can be the most organised assistant in the universe, as Pepper well knows, but working for Stark Industries is hardly a normal job. Especially not when you're really there to analyse your boss's potential for being part of a super hero group.

"Wow, really?" Daniil's eyes light up at this, and he leans forward, revealing his teeth in a gentle smile. "That's wonderful."

"It _was_ wonderful," Natasha sighs. "Until I refused to fuck my boss. Suddenly, he didn't want me in his productions anymore."

"Asshole." Daniil takes a swig of his beer and leans back in his seat again, his elbows resting on the table, beer bottle cradled in his hands.

"I know, right?" Natasha says, raising her glass to her lips and swallowing a mouthful of vodka. She exhales softly, and shakes her head, placing her glass back on the table and resting her head in her hands. "I just…it'd be so much easier if it didn't all fall apart at once, like if I still had my job, or my boyfriend wasn't locked up, or…if my parents were here."

Daniil reaches across the table and places his hand on top of hers. She looks up at him, his eyes meeting his. He has a piercing stare, and just for a moment, it catches her off guard, causing one of her faux ragged breaths (they're always good for pretending she's about to cry) to catch in her throat.

"Things will get better. Tomorrow's a new day. A fresh start."

"Yeah," Natasha says, wiping at her eyes with the back of her spare hand. "Yeah I guess you're right."

"You'll get another job soon enough, I bet you're a fantastic dancer."

Natasha forces a watery smile and downs the last of her vodka. "Thanks," she says softly. "I'm sorry to dump all this on you, I guess I just…" she buries her face in the palm of her hand and Daniil sighs, reaching his hand forward to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture reminds her of Loki, and the alcohol has increased her yearning for Asgard, her worries about him growing vaster and ever more poisonous to the normal functions of her brain. It feels as though he is at the forefront of everything she says and does, and she has to think _through_ him because _not thinking_ about him just doesn't work.

"I was asking for it, I'm the one who came over," he hesitates before adding, "And I'm glad that I did. I'm glad you're not on your own now."

"You're very kind," Natasha says quietly. "There aren't many men like you. Or at least if there are, they've all stayed clear of me."

"I can't imagine why they'd ever do that," Daniil murmurs, rubbing his thumb gently across the back of her knuckles. "Tomorrow _will_ be better, I promise you. And if it's not, then I live just down the street, in the little house between the newsagents and the pharmacy. You can come see me, any time you like."

"Really?" Natasha asks, surprised at the amount of hope she manages to inject into her voice. She feels awful for manipulating him, knowing that she'll be gone tomorrow and he'll probably be waiting for her, but she's not here to feel sorry for people. She's here to get a job done, and planting roots, even with just one person, for her story to grow and take shape, is part of that job.

"Yeah," Daniil replies, squeezing her hand gently. "Day or night, any time, just come if you need someone."

Natasha sighs. "Thank you," she says softly, placing her hand on top of his. His eyes linger on their hands, then flick back to her face. He glances down at her lips, but then seems to think better of acting on any impulses, and pulls away from her, just a little.

She doesn't feel right, conning any more drinks out of him, and so she excuses herself, thanking him for his kindness, and telling him that she's going to get some rest. He offers to walk her home, but she politely declines, telling him she'll be fine and she just wants a little thinking time. He reluctantly agrees, but sees her to the door anyway, reminding her one last time of the little house between the newsagents and the pharmacy.

She passes the house, with its narrow, wooden door and cracked black paint. She smiles and heads into the pharmacy, buying a few necessities before heading to the liquor store to get her cheap bottle of vodka. After that, she heads to the nearest hotel that doesn't look like a _complete_ dive, and takes a room for the night.

"You have any luggage?" the man on the front desk asks.

Natasha shakes her head and he raises an eyebrow.

"Just the one night," she says, placing her money on the table. He takes it, his eyes lingering on the brown paper bag from the liquor store, but Natasha waits calmly for her change, and he doesn't comment, placing the coins in her hand then passing her a key.

"Room thirteen," he tells her.

She takes the key and heads down the corridor until she finds the brass '13' on the door at the end. She unlocks it and opens the door, before flipping on the light switch and going inside. It's clean, and it's warm, so she can't complain. The bed is nothing compared to the one she stayed in the previous night, and she knows her body will long for the soft mattress and silkily smooth sheets of Loki's quarters. She knows she will also yearn for the presence of somebody else next to her, but she needs to get over that, because this is the most comfortable night she's going to have for a while.

She kicks off her shoes with a sigh and then switches on the television, before settling on the bed, plumping up the pillows and trying to make herself as comfortable as possible. She unscrews the cap of the vodka bottle and then drinks a considerable amount, losing track of the number of glugs that sound before she sets it on the bedside table. She screws up her face and wishes she'd chosen a more recognisable brand, making a mental note to tell Fury just how committed she was to the assignment when she gets back. With any luck he'll reward her with a bottle of Lordanov or perhaps a limited edition Belvedere.

After a while she gets used to the taste (either that or her tastebuds have died completely) but she soon finds her yawns are becoming more and more frequent. She switches off the television and raises her hips, sliding the blankets out from underneath her and pulling them up around her, not bothering to get undressed. She lays on her side and closes her eyes, her knees tucked up to her chest, as she tries to remember the feeling of having Loki's arms locked around her.

If she focuses hard enough, she can remember the sensation of his lips on her neck, and some of the tension in her body disappears, as she slips into sleep.

* * *

The light hurts her eyes in the morning, which will serve her right for drinking such cheap and nasty shit. She pushes herself up, her hair all over the place, and steels herself before cracking open the vodka bottle again and downing as much as she can without gagging. It takes the edge off of her headache, but she knows she'll feel all the more awful for it later. It's of little consequence however, because she's pretty sure she'll have much bigger problems by then.

She secures her enchanted hair clip around a rough bun and she feels it lock into place, knowing it won't move until she wants it to. Then, she lies back on the bed and waits for the time to pass, occasionally sitting up to swallow down more vodka. There's a strange sense of numbness about her, as though she has accepted the inevitable. She hasn't really given much thought to the details, having decided that if she does, she might overthink it and ruin it all. She goes to take another few mouthfuls of vodka, but a single dribble slides out the neck of the bottle and into her mouth. She drops it to the floor, where it lands on the carpet with a soft thud, her hand hanging over the edge of the bed, fingers curling every now and then as though trying to maintain a grip on the bottle that's no longer there.

She falls asleep again after a while, though it's an uneasy, unrestful sort of sleep, plagued with dreams of Loki descending into madness and being locked away once more, his appetite diminished, his body along with it. He refuses to eat, blaming her for everything because she left him, telling her if she'd stayed, none of this would have happened. She argues with him, but it's fruitless, because he can't hear her through the glass, and even when she's yelling her apologies, her breath fogging the glass, her hands pressed against it, his own shouts are louder, his accusations more poisonous, his voice ringing in her ears as he grows ever more hateful.

She wakes with a start, the phone next to her bed ringing shrilly. She doesn't answer it, but one glance at the clock tells her she's overrun check-out by fifteen minutes. She doesn't have long, and so she grabs the bag from the pharmacy, emptying the contents onto the bedside cabinet. Out falls a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, some shampoo, a small bottle of shower gel and a shiny silver razor blade.

Natasha rips the packaging open, then, blade in hand, she stares down at her wrists, wishing she'd thought about this particular bit when she was sober. She holds her breath, then runs the blade along her flesh, teeth digging into her lower lip as she refuses to make a sound. She slices through her skin a few more times, then swaps hands, warm blood drenching her left forearm as she shakily tries to inflict similar wounds on her right arm. When she's done, and she can feel herself losing some of her strength, she falls back onto her pillows, the sickening _drip, drip, drip_ of her blood landing on the carpet giving her a morbid countdown.

She doesn't have to wait long before there is a knock at the door, and when she doesn't answer, she hears a key turn in the lock, the hinges creaking as the door is pushed open, and then a high pitched scream. Loud footsteps hurry along the corridor, and then, breathless, a man swears, and Natasha hears him stumble, reaching out for the door and falling against it.

"Call an ambulance!" he orders. "Quickly!"

More footsteps, and then Natasha hears the man approach. Moments later, a coarse towel is wrapped tightly around her right wrist, and after it's been tied in a rough knot, he moves over to her left, securing a second towel around her forearm.

"You stupid, _stupid girl_," he hisses, pulling the knot on the towel tight. "What was it? A man?" he makes a disparaging noise. "You fool. You _complete fool_."

He leans over, tapping her cheek with his fingers, trying to coax some signs of life from her, but Natasha keeps her eyes closed, her breathing shallow, and her movements minimal. His taps grow stronger, until they become full on slaps, but Natasha still doesn't react, not even the slightest twitch when his hand connects harshly with the side of her face.

Giving up, he decides instead to hold her wrists in the air, letting gravity do its work. "They'll take you to the asylum you know. And in all my life I've never seen anyone come out of there. You'd best hope they don't think you're crazy."

Natasha's heart freezes in her chest, her lungs halting, and she loses her rhythm for just a second, the urge to ask questions overwhelming. But then she lets out a shallow breath as sirens begin to wail into earshot. Minutes later, there's the thundering of many pairs of feet, rushing down the corridor, and the squeaky wheels of an ambulance trolley. Her ability to focus on her surroundings starts to fade, and she's soon lifted onto the trolley and strapped in, then wheeled down the corridor, hushed whispers following her progress as the paramedics speak loudly and clearly, trying to elicit a response from her. She doesn't give them one, and after a juddering journey down the front steps, she feels the cold air of the outside world bite at her cheeks, her bare feet immediately freezing up.

In the distance, she hears a panicked shout. "Irina?"

There's a brief struggle, as though someone's pushing through a crowd of onlookers, and then -

"Irina, _no_!"

Daniil is by her side in an instant, his warm hand wrapped around her cold one.

"Sir, please, we need to take her to hospital."

"Why would you do this?" Daniil whispers, and Natasha tries not to grimace as even more guilt pools in her gut. "Why?" He raises her hand and presses it to his lips, his beard tickling her knuckles, before somebody pulls him away, Natasha's hand falling softly onto the blankets as the paramedics load her into the back of the ambulance. The doors slam, and then they pull away, sirens crying loudly overhead, and Natasha allows herself to slip into unconsciousness.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Well, on the same day that I'm going to head down to London for the midnight showing of TDW, I pass 100 reviews on this fic. Thank you, you beautiful people. You're lovely.

* * *

**Turn**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

She feels empty, weak, and her head is pounding. She tries opening her eyes but the glare of the strip lighting overhead forces her to squeeze them shut again. She lets out a groan and places her forearm over her eyes, relishing in the darkness. Her wrists are sore, naturally, but she always knew that was going to be the case. She can feel the bandages wrapped tightly around them, the stitches holding her skin together, and the plastic tube of the cannula in the back of her left hand. The only noise in the room is the frequent creaking of the drip machine next to her, as it pumps fluid into her. She assumes it's just saline, because they've probably run some blood tests and discovered that the little blood she had left was around seventy per cent vodka. It feels strange, the coolness in her veins, gradually warming before another burst enters; it's almost pleasant.

At the sound of a sigh, she realises she's not the only person in the room, and so she forces her eyes open, squinting in the light, and looks around. Daniil is sitting in the chair by her bed, his face propped up by the heel of his palm, his eyes closed, a magazine open on his lap. When she started reeling off her lies to him last night, Natasha had no idea that he'd end up getting so involved, that he'd be here when she woke, watching over her like some alcohol-enabling guardian angel. She hates the idea that she's fucking up his day, especially when none of this is real. She will tell lie after lie to bad people, corrupt people, or just people she plain doesn't like, and she won't lose a wink of sleep over it. But lying to people like Daniil? Tugging on their heart strings with tales of tragedy and then following it up with a faux suicide attempt? _Now_ she questions her moral standpoint.

He coughs himself awake, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown, before he yawns, stretching his arms out in front of him, then opens his eyes.

"You're awake."

Natasha nods solemnly, then turns her head on the pillow to stare at the ceiling. She doesn't want to make things worse for him, but at the same time, she can't jeopardise her cover. She needs this story - it's the quickest, albeit the crudest, way she's got of getting inside that research facility. No one ever suspects the suicidal girl, after all.

"I told you, if you needed someone -"

"I wanted to die. I figured you wouldn't help me out with that."

Daniil sighs heavily, leaning forward and gently wrapping his hand around Natasha's. "There are things worth living for, no matter how bad it gets."

Natasha doesn't reply.

"I'll tell the doctor you're awake," Daniil mumbles, releasing Natasha's hand and getting to his feet. He leaves the room and Natasha closes her eyes, in an attempt to reset all the information in her brain. As if this assignment wasn't already complicated enough, she had to get herself entangled with a do-gooder. She knows the sort, desperate to fix everyone else's problems while his own life is probably sheer chaos. She doesn't know how to get rid of him, short of telling him to get lost, and to her, that seems a little ungrateful, after everything. She doesn't want to put him off helping people after all, because it's the Daniils of the world that make it worth fighting for. And yet, the longer he stays with her, the more involved in her treatment he is, the less likely she'll be to get transferred to Yanayev's facility, and even if she _does_ get transferred, if he gets wrapped up in that mess, if someone involved wants revenge and assumes he was in on the plan the whole time…

Her stomach lurches, but she doesn't have time to focus on her guilt, for Daniil has returned with a short, bespectacled doctor in a white lab coat, the overlong cuffs of his sleeves rolled up to his wrists.

"Miss Dezhnyov?"

"Yes."

"You've had a very lucky escape," he says, unhooking the chart from the end of her bed, his eyes trailing down it. Once he's absorbed all the information, he looks up, glancing at each of Natasha's wrists, then finally at her face. "Do you want to tell me why you did this?"

Natasha looks away from him and stays silent. She can feel Daniil's eyes on her, and the change in the atmosphere as he grows ever more impatient, waiting for her to talk.

"She's had a hard time recently," he says at last, and Natasha shoots a venomous look at him.

"And you are?" the doctor asks politely, turning his attention to Daniil.

"Daniil," he says. "Daniil Kazakov. I met Irina last night. We had a few drinks."

"More than a few, it seems," the doctor replies with a raised eyebrow. "Forgive me, Mr Kazakov, but would it be possible for me to speak to Irina alone?"

"Of course, if that's what she wants," Daniil says, turning to look at Natasha. She gives him a single nod, and he leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind him. The doctor takes the seat by Natasha's bed, crossing one leg over the other, his hands clasped and resting on his knee.

"Irina, it's very important that you tell us everything. We only want to help you get better. Wouldn't you like that?"

Silence, she decides is her best tool in this situation. She knows that if she breaks down and cries, that gives them something to work with, something for a counsellor to analyse, dissect, and talk her through. But lack of reaction, lack of emotion, and lack self-preservation? That's something that runs a lot deeper than 'having a hard time'. Nothing will get her committed quicker than the possibility that she might try to take her own life again, so there is to be absolutely no progress made during this conversation, no matter how much the doctor tries to wheedle things out of her, or how angry and upset Daniil will be at her refusal to accept help.

"You know as well as I do that your actions were a cry for help, and not a genuine attempt. Either that, or you're far more stupid than you look. There was a lot of blood, a lot of drama, and a lot of fuss. But the damage? Minimal. Your scars will heal and fade and by this time next year, you'll look back and shake your head at how silly you've been. Now, please, _let me help you_."

When she doesn't speak to him, the doctor sits back in his chair, steepling his fingers and watching her closely.

"I'm not going to go away, you know. If you don't get your act together, they'll send you to the care home, and I'm not sure you'll like it there."

Natasha stares at the wall ahead, trying to ignore the smarting in her wrists. After thirty seconds, she feels her eyes lose focus, and when she closes herself off from her surroundings, the doctor's words become background noise, occasional syllables filtering through her ears and into her brain. She remains this way, trying to keep all memories of the other times she was like this at bay.

She thinks of Loki, but instead of calling on memories of stone skimming, chocolate sharing, or poker games, which are all liable to make her smile, she thinks back to that time on the helicarrier, where he threatened to have Clint split her skull open. It's only now that she can see how very unwell he was at the time - pale, sweaty, scarred, his hands trembling despite his best efforts to disguise it by clasping them behind his back. She can recall with startling clarity the moment he slammed his fist against the glass of his cage as he towered above her, his voice deep and vicious. It physically hurts her to think about him like that, to remember the unnatural blue of his eyes, just like the unnatural blue of Clint's when he was trying to kill her. As much as it pains her, she forces her brain to focus on those things, because the more she focuses on the, more swamped she becomes, and the more she loses touch with reality.

"_Irina_."

The hand on her shoulder pulls her sharply from her thoughts and she gasps, blinking rapidly as she tries to readjust to her surroundings.

"What were you thinking about?"

He doesn't wait long for her to answer this time, having already realised that she won't, no matter what questions he asks or how gentle his tone.

"I think you need more specialist treatment," he says with a sigh. "At the home, they're very good people, the doctors are excellent at what they do, but it's just…the environment. It's safe, but it's not healthy. Not for someone like you who's been coping alone so far. Until last night, obviously."

Natasha ignores him still, her brain scrambling to pull all of her worst memories of Loki back together so she can delve into them at a moment's notice and shut herself away from delicately asked questions and hushed tones.

"They'll be able to help you there," the doctor sighs, getting to his feet, apparently giving up. "If you talk to them, that is. They can't do much if you don't."

He leaves the room, and for a few minutes, Natasha can hear the mumble of a conversation between him and Daniil outside the door, but she's unable to make out the words. Now she's alone, she tries to find some better memories of Loki, to ease the weight in her heart and chase away the lingering sickness that is a result of her unhappy memories. She finds it difficult to hold onto any of them though. She gets flashes of him smirking, sarcastic comments, eye rolls, and very _very_ briefly, a glimpse of his face, resting on a pillow as he reaches out to tuck her hair behind her ear. She tries to keep a hold of that one, but it's gone before she can even think about it, the blurred edges fading into a maniacal grin, and she has to _stop_ because this isn't helping.

The door opens, and in walks Daniil, his head bowed as he closes the door behind him. He sits down in the vacant chair and rests his head in his hands, his fingers gripping at his hair.

"He says they're going to transfer you to a care home…"

The drip machine creaks as it pushes more saline into her veins, and Natasha blinks, trying to focus on the wall ahead, rather than the snatches of Loki she's getting, flitting around her head, tormenting her.

"You're not _that sick_, are you?" he asks, his voice breaking, and then he sinks his teeth into his lower lip, his brown eyes brighter than Natasha is really comfortable with.

"Daniil, maybe you should go," she whispers. "Go home and forget you ever met me, you'll be a lot happier, I promise."

"I could look after you, if you wanted. There's a spare bedroom in my house, you could stay there while you get better, I'll make you food, we can go out, and I'll show you all the reasons why you should keep yourself alive. Just please, don't go to the care home, please don't go. Anywhere but _there_."

"Why?" Natasha asks blankly. "He says the doctors are very good there."

Daniil pulls at his hair and inhales deeply, looking up at the ceiling. Natasha's hanging off his every word now, despite what her body language might be suggesting to him. Every reaction of his, every beat, every syllable is being committed to her mental assignment file.

"No one ever comes _out_."

"Kids stories," Natasha says dismissively.

"No, really, Irina, they're not just stories -"

"I think you should go now," Natasha says harshly. "Thanks for hanging around but it's about time you left, don't you think?"

"Is that really what you want?" Daniil asks softly. "You really want me to go?"

"_Yes_. I mean come on, you met me twelve hours ago and you just asked me to move _in_ with you. Maybe I'm _not_ the crazy one, maybe it's _you_."

Daniil looks down at the floor, takes a deep breath, then stands up.

"I hope you get better soon," he says stiffly, then leaves, letting the door slam behind him. Natasha watches as he skulks down the corridor, hands dug deep in his pockets, before eventually, he disappears around the corner, and she's left staring at an empty corridor.

She rolls onto her side, her knees pulled up to her chest, hands tucked under her chin. She had thought, initially, that it would be difficult to maintain her cover, that all her other aliases would, in comparison, be a walk in the park. But, as she finds herself sinking into the silence, her memories of Loki twisting and evolving into new, horrible visions in her mind, she's beginning to think she'll fit in just fine at the care home.

* * *

The room is even smaller than Loki's cell. There is a narrow twin bed pushed against one wall, a small table next to it, and a dresser for her clothes. A folding door leads to a wet room with plastic flooring, a toilet and sink at one end and a very basic shower at the other. On the wall is a dispenser for shampoo and shower gel, and a plastic towel rail is fixed to the wall. It's not the worst place she's ever had to stay, but it's certainly no Asgard.

"Doctor Ulyanova will see you in a little while," the nurse says, standing by the door. "I'll come and collect you in twenty minutes."

Natasha sits down on the bed, holding the few items of clothing they allowed her to bring close to her chest, her arms locked in an x shape over them.

"I'm afraid I'm going to need to take your hair clip," the nurse says with a sigh. "No sharp objects."

"It's not sharp," Natasha says darkly. "And you will not take it. It was my mother's."

"It's very beautiful," the nurse says. "But rules are rules. I promise I'll look after it for you."

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "If you can remove it, then be my guest. Otherwise, you will not take it."

The nurse hesitates, then steps forward, and Natasha even turns her head to grant her easier access. She hopes Frigga's magic is as good as Loki says, because she won't feel quite as confident about her plan if the nurse manages to remove it. She pulls at the clip gently, then tries to unravel Natasha's hair from around the metal.

"It's certainly secure," the nurse comments. "Is there a special trick to it?"

Natasha smirks. "No. No trick."

The nurse pulls, with increasing force, and when she accidentally plucks a few of Natasha's hairs out from the roots, causing Natasha to hiss, she gives up, her arms dropping to her sides.

"I'm sorry," she says. "Maybe it's something you can speak with Doctor Ulyanova about. It's for your own safety, you know. It's not because we want to upset you."

Natasha gives her a steely look, and the nurse retreats, closing the door behind her and locking it. Natasha waits until she hears the footsteps fade from earshot, then sighs, lying down on the bed, arms folded across her stomach. Her wrists are itchy, but the bandages are so tightly wound that she couldn't possibly remove them, not without cutting them, and if she uses Frigga's knife for that, then they're bound to take the hair clip away from her, without any real evidence of it being responsible for the damage to the bandages.

The next twenty minutes pass slowly, and Natasha tries, once again, to get a grip on her good memories of Loki. It's a little easier, now she doesn't have an audience, and she finds that she's much less wrapped up in her cover story. She closes her eyes and thinks of the other night, of his hand resting comfortably on her leg while he read, her face slightly flushed from the heat of the wine, the fire light giving everything in the room a warm, twinkly glow. She feels her lips curve into a smile, her heart rate slow as she relaxes, and even the discomfort in her wrists starts to fade. She wonders if he's laying on that indecently large bed of his, staring at the ceiling high above, thinking of her. She hopes not. She hopes he's making an effort with Thor, perhaps going exploring in the woods, or heading up to the mountains, or maybe even just allowing Thor to sit in the same room as him while he reads. She's not sure Thor will have the patience for that, but perhaps his desire to bond with Loki will overwhelm his restlessness.

When the nurse returns, Natasha gets up silently, banishing all traces of Loki from her mind. Her face falls into an emotionless mask, and she follows the nurse down corridors, through a number of doors, until eventually the linoleum flooring becomes dark wooden floorboards, the cheaply painted doors with plastic viewing windows swapped for old, carved oak doors with brass handles. The nurse opens the door to an office which has a wall full of books, a large desk, behind which is a leather chair on castors, and, in the centre of the room, is a chaise longue, upholstered with dark green leather and small brass studs. Natasha tries to ignore the colour, and when the nurse gestures for her to take a seat, she does so.

"Doctor Ulyanova will be along in a moment," she says. "Will you be all right to wait for a couple of minutes?"

Natasha nods, resting her hands in her lap and regulating her breathing. In truth, she's dreading the conversation. To be able to stay here, she needs to enter that same headspace that she was in at the hospital. She needs to recreate that same anchor in her chest that fills her with hopelessness, and lingers long after the curtains have closed on her performance. More than that, though, she needs to be able to level up again, if she's to have the slightest chance of making it to the next level. The research facility is a few miles away, but depending on how she's assessed, she could be there in the next few days, or it could take weeks, _months_, even, of velcro fastened shoes and bland, mass produced food.

She delves into her pot of unhappy memories, and quickly loses herself, unable to escape that venomous, icy blue glare. She faintly hears the door open and close, but she is purposefully oblivious to her surroundings, sinking lower and lower into the depths of darker (though not her darkest, she's not _that_ committed to the job) memories. She remembers running for her life from Bruce, his face filled with rage, and then, after a narrow escape that left her shaking and hiding in a corner, she recalls Clint, one hand around her neck, a knife millimetres from her face, and all the while, the expression on his face was one of not giving a damn that he was trying to kill his best friend.

"Irina?"

Doctor Ulyanova is young, with a kind face, her blonde hair secured in a loose braid hanging down over her left shoulder. She has a pile of papers in front of her, and her pen tip poised over her notebook.

"Do you want to tell me why you're here?"

"You know why I'm here."

"In your own words though," Ulyanova prompts, offering a gentle smile of encouragement. "Take your time. Make yourself comfortable."

Natasha doesn't move a muscle, nor does she say a word. She stares out of the window on the far wall, unable to see much in the darkness, except for the flecks of snow, whipping past the glass, collecting on the outside ledge.

"I hear you're a dancer," Ulyanova says, in that same, patient tone that is really starting to grate on Natasha.

"_Was_. I _was_ a dancer_."_

"What happened?"

Natasha remains silent, unwilling to give Ulyanova much to work with. She needs to be a lost cause, a source of frustration for her, she needs to quickly get to the point where Ulyanova wishes to wash her hands of her, and pack her off to Yanayev's research facility.

"Those bruises," Ulyanova says, gesturing with her writing hand to Natasha's forearms. "Did you boyfriend give you those?"

Natasha rolls her eyes and rests the side of her head on her hand boredly. The bruises are faint now, barely even visible, just a slight tinge of yellow, with the largest one clinging onto a hint of purple at the centre.

"Has he hurt you before?"

"He didn't _hurt me_," Natasha says through gritted teeth, throwing a poisonous look in Ulyanova's direction.

"So who gave you the bruises?" Ulyanova presses, her naivety astounding for someone who works in psychiatric care.

"He did," Natasha says with an exasperated sigh. "He's very _passionate_."

"Love isn't supposed to hurt, Irine," Ulyanova says softly. "You know that, don't you?"

Natasha shakes her head in disbelief. "When I say, passionate," she says, turning her head to meet Ulyanova's gaze and turning on her best intimidating stare. "I don't mean he was passionate about beating me. I mean he was passionate about fucking me."

The words, designed to shock, do their job well. Ulyanova turns beetroot red, and adjusts her glasses, pushing them further up her nose and staring down at the notes in front of her.

"I take it you've never been pinned down and fucked senseless before," Natasha adds, poking her with a stick. The less she warms to Natasha, the more chance there is that she'll send her on her merry way sooner, rather than later. And the sooner that happens, the sooner she can head back to Asgard and ensure Loki hasn't tried to invade any planets in her absence.

"We're not here to talk about me," Ulyanova says primly, her face still flushed. "We're here to talk about you."

Natasha smirks, but doesn't add any more fuel to the fire. Small steps are important, and she doesn't want to say too much in this first meeting, because once her words are out there, no matter how she intends for them to land in Ulyanova's brain, psychiatrists tend to have an uncanny knack of taking something completely different from seemingly harmless sentences and turning it into a seventeen page report.

She knows this, rather unfortunately, from experience.

"So you have a good relationship with your boyfriend? Will he be coming to visit you?"

Natasha turns away, and it doesn't take much effort for her to force her eyes to prickle uncomfortably, her breathing suddenly heavier as she exhales through her nose, her lips pressed tightly together as she _tries_ not to cry.

"Are you still together?" Ulyanova asks delicately. "I'm sorry, I just assumed that -"

"He's been sent to jail," Natasha chokes out. "He's not gonna be out for a while."

"What did he do?"

"None of your _damn_ business. We're not here to talk about him, we're here to talk about _me_."

"So let's talk about you then," Ulyanova says coolly, fixing Natasha with an icy stare that she hadn't thought her capable of. "Let's talk about Irina."

Natasha sighs, blinking rapidly, trying to chase away the tears, brimming around her lower eye lids.

"Was this the first time you tried?"

"No."

Ulyanova scribbles some notes onto her pad, then returns her attention to Natasha, her lips pursed, chin resting on her knuckles.

"And the other times, did you cut yourself? Or did you try other methods?"

"Other methods," Natasha says grudgingly. "Thought I'd _mix it up_ a little this time."

"Didn't work though," Ulyanova says, pointlessly. Natasha rolls her eyes and stares up at the ceiling, twirling a loose lock of her hair around her index finger boredly.

"Would have, if the maid hadn't have barged in," Natasha murmurs, before briefly meeting Ulyanova's gaze. "No respect for privacy, these people."

"That hotel manager saved your life, I'm told."

"Asshole."

From the corner of her eye, Natasha can see Ulyanova shake her head in disbelief, jotting more notes down, her pen moving at a lightning fast speed across the page. "You should be grateful," she says. "You wouldn't be here if it weren't for him."

"Well maybe I'll send him some flowers…"

Ulyanova sighs and sets down her pen. "The nurse tells me you have an unsanctioned hair clip in your possession."

Natasha laughs derisively, throwing her head back and letting out a sardonic chuckle, before she turns to address Ulyanova. "An _unsanctioned hair clip_? My god, what is _wrong _with you people?"

"Hand it over," Ulyanova says, rising from her seat and approaching Natasha, her hand held out. "I'm not joking, Irina, you need to hand it over."

"Over my dead body," Natasha says through gritted teeth. "It was my mother's. You are _not_ taking it away from me."

"Let me see it," Ulyanova says firmly, hand still waiting. "And I will decide if it's appropriate for you to keep. If I think you can harm yourself with it -"

Natasha huffs and, with a deep scowl on her face, reaches behind her head to release the clip. It falls loosely into her hands, even more delicate and tactile than she remembers. She mentally thanks Frigga for her ridiculously intelligent magic, and places the clip in Ulyanova's hand. She turns it over, eyebrows slightly raised, running her fingers along the edges.

"Are those emeralds?" she asks, looking up from the clip and meeting Natasha's glare.

"_Yes_."

Ulyanova looks back down at the clip, before shrugging and handing it back to Natasha. "I think that's fine to keep," she says. "It's not sharp at all. It's very beautiful, actually."

"Thank you," Natasha says stiffly, placing the clip back in her hair and waiting for it to lock into place.

"So," Ulyanova says, taking a seat on the chaise longue next to her, leaning forward, her forearms resting on her knees. "What was your mother like?"

Natasha groans and slumps back in the seat, staring at the ceiling, her fingers picking at the edge of her bandages. Compared to this, she's starting to think the research facility will be a walk in the park.

* * *

Dinner is a miserable affair. She is given a plastic tray and on it is a nauseating selection of food that isn't the colour it should. The rice is a grubby shade of grey, while the peas and carrots have been microwaved beyond redemption, shadows of their former selves. The unidentifiable meat (potentially chicken) is covered in a watery sauce, bubbles of fat glistening on the top.

"It gets better," says a quiet voice next to her.

Natasha turns to see a girl with lank dark hair and pale face waiting in line next to her.

"Really?" Natasha asks.

"No, not really, don't listen to her, she's an idiot." The reply come from the same girl, but the tone is different, harsher, and somehow, her face takes on a different shape than previously.

Natasha opens her mouth to respond, but no words come out.

"Be _quiet_, you're _scaring her_," the girl hisses.

"No, you're not, you're really not," Natasha says quickly, shuffling along the line where the next cook hands her an apple.

"I'm Isabella, and my sister - _Anastasia, I'm the clever one, she's the idiot._"

"Sister?" Natasha asks curiously, as the cook hands a speckled banana to Isabella/Anastasia.

"Yes," she says softly, following Natasha to the nearest free table and sitting down opposite her. "She died at birth, we were twins, but - _You mean you killed me. Her umbilical cord wrapped itself around my neck while she was on her way out. Strangled me. She made it out just _fine_ of course, but they pulled what was left of me out with the forceps._"

"Well that sounds shitty," Natasha says, looking down at her brightly coloured plastic fork and spoon and sighing. She picks up the fork, spears a piece of the (potential) chicken on the end of it, then gingerly places it in her mouth, chewing quickly to avoid the taste.

"Pasta tomorrow, they usually can't mess that one up too badly - _oh who are you _kidding_? The food is awful, it's best that she gets used to that now_." It's startling, just how quickly everything changes about the girl, right before her eyes. Somehow though, it doesn't seem weird to Natasha. Obviously, there's some really fucking deep seated issues going on, but the way the girl behave and interact with one another doesn't intimidate her, like she knows it would with others. She wonders how much better Isabella would fare without Anastasia, whether she really makes such a huge impact on her life, or whether it's everybody else that's bothered by it. Sure, it's not the norm, but there are crazier people walking freely around New York, she knows for certain.

"Pasta sounds…bearable?" Natasha says, before trying a forkful of rice. It's dry and tasteless and she ends up having to wash it down with a swig of water from her plastic cup. She's only two mouthfuls through her first meal, and already, she finds herself gagging at the thought of eating any more. She wouldn't be surprised if after a couple of weeks of this, she actually _is_ crazy.

"_It's not bearable at all, but you'll learn to cope with it. If you ask for tea or coffee and drink it straight away, it'll burn your tastebuds and you won't have to taste anything._"

"Sounds like an idea," Natasha replies, pushing her food around her plate. She tries a carrot, but it breaks as soon as she puts her fork into it, and so she uses the edge of her fork to scoop it up instead. It turns mush the moment it enters her mouth, and it's with a great deal of effort that Natasha manages to swallow it without throwing up.

"It hurts like hell though, so maybe don't listen to - _yes, it hurts almost as much as being strangled to death by your own sister._"

Anastasia's mask disappears from Isabella's face, and she folds her arms across her chest, abandoning her food altogether. Within moments, however, Anastasia has returned, seizing the opportunity that is Isabella's silence.

"_It doesn't hurt _that_ much. And it's better than this._" She gestures to the trays, and Natasha nods.

"So what are you in for?" Isabella asks, an irritable Anastasia disappearing in a disgruntled flash.

Natasha is about to answer, but Anastasia butts in. "_She tried to kill herself, you idiot. Didn't do a very good job though, what happened?_"

"Hotel manager found me," Natasha says, examining her apple. "Called an ambulance."

"_Asshole_."

Natasha smirks, and peels the sticker off of the waxy green skin. "That's what I said." She takes a bite, and it's the first thing she can honestly deem edible. It's almost fresh, and while it's not the best apple she's ever had, far from it, to be perfectly honest, it's certainly a godsend right now.

"But why would you want to die?"

Isabella's concerned expression is gone as soon as it arrives. "_Maybe she's sharing a body with a murderer too_."

There is a brief moment of panic on Anastasia's face, before Isabella angrily slams down her fork. "I am _not_ a murderer!" she shrieks.

Natasha stops chewing, looking around, but of the few patients in the canteen with them, none of them have batted an eyelid at the scene. Perhaps it's a regular occurrence, or maybe they're just simply too wrapped up in their own heads to even care about the internal struggle happening in Isabella's body.

"_Keep telling yourself that, if it helps you sleep at night._"

Quick as a flash, Isabella grabs her plastic fork and plunges it into the back of her left hand, exerting so much force on it that the prongs not only manage to pierce the skin, but sink a good inch or so into the flesh. Natasha recoils, her eyes wide, and tears start to stream down Isabella's face.

"Now look what you've done!" she wails, and one of the nurses comes over, syringe in hand, and carefully administers a sedative before Isabella even realises she's there. It comes into effect quickly, her eyelids drooping, before she slumps forward, onto the table, Natasha just managing to pull her dinner tray out of the way before she crashes into it. Another nurse arrives with a wheelchair, and between the two of them, they lift Isabella into the chair then wheel her off, out of the canteen and down the corridor, the wheels of the chair squeaking in the distance.

Natasha finishes her apple in silence, picks at a little bit more of the chicken, then decides it's time to head to her room. As she lays awake that night, her encounter with Isabella at the forefront of her mind, while Loki lurks in the darker corners, intruding on her thoughts more frequently than she'd like, she wonders whether she ought to ramp up the crazy, just a little bit. She's not sure suicide attempts are quite interesting enough to get her to where she needs to be.

* * *

With every single hour that passes, Natasha feels herself sink further into depression. She has no idea how genuinely sick people are supposed to get better in here, considering that she was technically fine (a little fucked up, but isn't everyone?) when she came in, and now she spends her days staring into space, not even needing to dig into her collection of bad memories of Loki to help her seem genuine. Perhaps it's the fact that everything she does is supervised - her showers are timed, just in case she manages to drown herself; watchful eyes survey her as she tries to eat, perhaps labouring on the delusion that she's choking on purpose, rather than due to the sheer inedibility of the food.

She's lost weight. She tries to keep track of the days, but after the eighth or ninth, she finds it difficult. Her head is all over the place, and she finds it difficult to focus on one thing for a substantial amount of time. Ulyanova barely gets a syllable from her in their daily meetings, and nor do the co-ordinators and nurses in charge of the activities during the day time. She sticks with Isabella, who has a thick bandage wrapped around her hand, and is now only allowed a spoon at meal times. For the most part, she and Anastasia get along reasonably well, bar the occasional snide comment, but sometimes, Anastasia pushes it too far, just like she did on the first night, and Isabella loses it, destroying the nearest thing in a fit of rage. So far, she's gotten through two chairs, an easel, and a pottery wheel. Each time, Natasha looks down at the floor as her unconscious form is dragged away, her head lolling like a rag doll's.

In one of their art sessions, they are asked to make Christmas cards for one another. Natasha sighs loudly, earning herself a disapproving glare from the co-ordinator.

"Come on Irina," Isabella says brightly, folding her red sheet of card in half, her tongue stick out of the corner of her mouth while she lines the edges up with pin point precision. "We'll give you ours, and you can give us yours."

Natasha pulls her own piece of card towards her, folds it in two and runs her thumb along the crease, flattening it down.

"I want to put a snowman on it," Isabella says quietly, and Natasha can tell that an argument is about to break out. Ignoring it, she takes the tub of white glitter and the glue stick, then begins to cover the lower half of the card in 'snow', while Isabella and Anastasia angrily exchange design ideas.

"_Snowmen are for babies, you're not a baby, are you - _Snowmen are _not_ for babies. Just because I don't want a reindeer massacre, it doesn't mean I'm a baby, it just means I'm _sane_."

Anastasia laughs cruelly at this, but Isabella grabs the plastic wallet of card shapes and empties it out on the table, rooting around for different sized white circles before Anastasia can take hold again. Natasha spots one and hands it to her, Isabella smiling as she takes it.

"_Oh don't encourage her._"

"You don't give a damn about the card," Natasha says simply. "Just let her get on with it, all right?"

"_But -_"

"She's your _sister_. She just wants to make a damn Christmas card. Let her."

"Thank you, Irina," Isabella says primly, gluing the body of her snowman onto the card. "You see? Irina's kind to me - _Yes, but you didn't murder Irina, did you_?_"_

Natasha sighs, and then blows the excess glitter off of her card.

"I am _not_ having this conversation again, look what you did to my hand! _My hand! _You don't _have_ a hand! It burned in the incinerator along with the rest of you!"

"Girls, come on," Natasha says, her voice gentle but firm. "Let's not argue."

"_I'm sorry if I'm holding a bit of a grudge, but she -_"

"Has let you share her body your whole lives. Now stop being a lousy room mate. Can't you guys just leave passive aggressive notes or something?" Natasha grabs the pot of felt tips and begins drawing a log cabin on top of her snow. Apparently, the brown pen isn't too popular, because it's one of the few that still has ink in, for which she is grateful. It's the small things that get her through the day. When it comes to drawing the fir trees around it, however, the green runs out irritatingly fast, and before she can reign herself in, Natasha launches it across the room with the speed of a bullet. It smashes against the wall, leaving a faint green blob on the plaster, then drops into the bin.

"Irina!" One of the co-ordinators strides over, her hands on her hips. "Am I going to have to send you back to your room?"

"It was _finished_," Natasha says sourly, her breathing loud and erratic as she tries to get a grip on herself. "I put it in the bin."

"That was definitely _not_ an example of _putting_. Why can't you just get on with things nicely, like Anastasia?"

Natasha glances to her left, to see Isabella cast a venomous look towards the co-ordinator, and then shake her head. It really isn't that difficult to tell the difference between the two of them, and from what Natasha can gather, the girls have been in institutions for most of their life. If she can tell the difference with a glance after two weeks, then surely the people who are supposed to be looking after them can tell the difference after months, maybe even _years_ of breaking up arguments between them.

"Can I have a new green pen?" Natasha asks, her arms folded across her stomach. She scowls at the half finished tree on her card, and after a moment, the co-ordinator sighs.

"Fine," she says. "But no more throwing."

Natasha rolls her eyes and waits for the co-ordinator to get the new pen from the cupboard. She fiddles around with a number of keys before she unlocks it, and Natasha sighs impatiently, tapping her fingers against the desk.

"_No more throwing, Irina_," Anastasia says, a smirk plastered on her lips.

"I'll throw _you_ in a second," Natasha mutters, taking the green pen from the co-ordinator and pulling the lid off.

"Here we are," Isabella says, smoothing her hand over her finished card. She hands it to Natasha, and she takes it, dutifully surveying the snowman on the front before she opens it. Even their handwriting differs - Isabella's neat, rounded letters making up the bulk of the message, while Anastasia signs her own name in a narrow, flowing script.

"Thank you," Natasha says, standing it in front of her on the desk. "I'll be finished with yours soon."

"No need to rush, we can make another one," Isabella says, taking another piece of card and folding it in two. "_Reindeer mass - _No!"

Natasha continues with her colouring, and when the trees are finished, she lines the edges with glue and sprinkles more white glitter over them, and then the roof of her log cabin. She's not sure why she's bothering to put so much effort into making the card, it's not like she's _enjoying_ herself. She finds the art sessions to be tedious and childish, but she's not so opposed to the idea of keeping busy.

Also, for some reason, the Christmas cards are a big deal to Isabella, even if Anastasia couldn't give a damn. She'd like to do her the courtesy of putting in at least half as much effort as Isabella put into her own card.

"Are you gonna give that one to your family?" Natasha asks, nodding to the new card, while Anastasia draws the outlines of several reindeer.

"We don't have any family," Isabella pipes up. "_Father left when we were small - _and Mummy drank herself into an early grave."

"I'm sorry," Natasha says, brushing a few remnants of glitter from her fingertips. "I don't have anyone either."

"Well then you can have this card as well," Isabella says. "One from me, and one from Anastasia."

Natasha smiles. "Thanks."

"_Nobody, your whole life?_"

"I have a boyfriend," Natasha mumbles, using a darker shade of brown to draw some wood grain on her cabin, all of her attention focused on the card.

"_Oh yeah? Where's he?_"

"Jail," she says glumly.

"_Really?_" Anastasia puts down the pen, giving Natasha her undivided attention. "What for?"

Natasha pauses, her pen poised an inch above the card. "He killed some people."

"_Awesome_."

"No," Natasha says. "Definitely _not_ awesome."

"_Definitely awesome. How many people did he - _Anastasia, you can't just ask her how many people her boyfriend's killed. Is he handsome?" Isabella's cheeks flush a gentle shade of pink, her lips curved into a small smile.

Natasha smiles, but there's a pang in her chest as she searches for the vague truth that forms the basis of her lie. "Yeah, yeah he is."

"_What does he look like?_" Anastasia asks, abandoning the card and her reindeer massacre, a sly grin on her face.

"Dark hair…" Natasha murmurs, her pen running over the same line more times than necessary. "Green eyes…"

"_Tall_?"

Natasha nods.

"Is he strong?"

"Yeah," Natasha replies. "Stronger than he looks. He's kinda lean."

"_Muscular though?_" Anastasia asks, eyebrow arched.

"Yep," she says, her eyes focused on her card. She doesn't like talking about him too much, not only because she fears her cover will become far too much of a self portrait. Apart from that, she misses the asshole, she's worried about him, and being stuck in this place is fucking with her head and emotions so she feels particularly vulnerable when she lets her real emotions break through to the surface.

"He sounds _gorgeous_," Isabella sighs, resting her chin on the heel of her palm and staring into space. "Does he know that you're in here?"

"Nope," Natasha says, trying to block the image of Loki from her mind once and for all. She doesn't need to perform in front of the girls, doesn't need to wear that anchor around her heart for anyone who doesn't have the authority to prescribe her meds, and yet still he persists, pushing at her thoughts, perforating them, his unnatural blue eyes glowing in the darkness of her mind.

"Will he be upset when he finds out?"

Natasha puts the lid back on her pen and places it back in the pot. She hands the card to Isabella, who is momentarily distracted, a large smile on her face as she coos over the snow, and the red breasted robin perched on the fence. Anastasia, on the other hand, isn't so hard to throw off.

"_Well_?"

"He's not gonna find out," Natasha says. "And really, what's he gonna do? Kill me?"

Anastasia smirks. "_Maybe you should have asked him for some tips before he went away._"

"Yeah," Natasha says. "Maybe that would have been a better idea."

* * *

She's taken to sleeping on the floor in the corner of her room. Each night she wraps her blanket around her and curls up, her head resting against the wall. She knows why she does it, knows why she ignores the confused frowns of the nurses when they peep through the viewing port to check she's okay. She hates herself for it, but being on the floor like this reminds her of long days in Loki's cell. She's gotten to the point where she can really manage to lose herself inside her own head, without having to delve too deep. Within minutes, she can imagine that he's sitting next to her, counting out his poker winnings, or else fast asleep after a heavy meal, his breathing gentle and even.

The real decision to sleep on the floor came after one too many nights of not being able to remember what it feels like to have his arms around her, his face tucked into her neck, his breath warm against her skin. It feels as though her memories of him are beyond reach, but only on the condition that they contain some happiness or contentment. Anything that causes her to wake in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, her heart racing, lungs heaving, her hands shaking, is always plentiful. But something that could give her some comfort in this godforsaken place? No, she can't have anything like that.

The days have blended into blurs of arts and crafts activities, repetitive and unproductive meetings with Doctor Ulyanova, bickering between Isabella and Anastasia, and frequent accusations of murder and betrayal, Isabella getting increasingly upset, although no more forks have found their way into flesh since that first incident. The nights are long and lonely, and she almost longs for sunrise, when she's allowed to go to the canteen for breakfast. The girls are always waiting, up at the crack of dawn, apparently, and she appreciates the company. For someone who's been so insular her whole life, the lonely twelve hours she spends in her room each night have really started to get to her.

When she comes down one morning (it's a Thursday according to the nurse on duty), Isabella and Anastasia aren't there. She collects her breakfast (a couple of slices of cold toast, a tangerine, and a glass of milk) and sits down, wondering whether the girls have overslept, or if they had an episode in the night. She chews her food slowly, her tastebuds no longer caring, her throat immune to the dryness of the toast after so long. The feasts of Asgard seem like they were a million years ago now, and even a pizza from Tony's latest investment seems like it'd be gourmet cuisine right now.

She doesn't see herself in the mirror very often - glass isn't permitted in the residential area - but sometimes she catches sight of her reflection in the mirror in Ulyanova's office and with every passing day, she looks worse and worse. Her skin has taken on a greyish hue, her hair straw-like, having lost its vivid hue. There are bags under her eyes, and her face is gaunt, hollow, her skin dry. She knows she's lost some of her strength, despite the exercises she tries to do in the late evening, her eyes constantly on the viewing port to ensure she isn't caught out by any of the nurses.

After breakfast, she skulks her way into the art room, glancing around to see if Isabella's made it down, but she's nowhere to be seen. Natasha takes a seat, listens boredly to the safety talk before they're allowed to get on with decorating notebooks with coloured paper, sequins, and glitter. It's a dull exercise, with the end result being that they write about how they're feeling this morning in their new shiny notebook. When the art materials are confiscated and replaced with chunky, fibre tipped pens for writing, Natasha sighs and scribbles the word _bullshit_ across her entire first page. She knows it's juvenile, but she really wants to get a move on, she wants to be that impossible patient who won't co-operate, and who they'll be glad to see the back of when it comes to selling off the meat to Yanayev's research facility.

The co-ordinator folds her arms and raises an eyebrow at Natasha's notebook, but Natasha shrugs, puts her feet up on the chair next to her, and holds her gaze.

"Why can't you just do as you're asked for once?"

"I _have_," Natasha says pointedly. "We were told to write about how we feel. I feel that this is bullshit. I was being succinct."

"That's _one way _of putting it," the co-ordinator replies, pursing her lips. "You know the more you talk about what's troubling you, the easier it'll get."

"I'm sure," Natasha says with a sigh. Then, after a pause, she asks, "Where's Isabella?"

"She's been transferred," the co-ordinator says boredly. "To another institution. Apparently they're running a programme for people with her condition, so that'll be better for her."

"But she's okay, right?"

"Yes," the co-ordinator replies, her mouth finally falling into a sympathetic smile. "She's fine. Why don't you write about her in your book?"

"No," Natasha says, falling back in her seat and pushing the notebook away from her. She chews on her thumb nail, a sickening feeling swirling around in her stomach. Her hands are shaking, and her body feels weak. She will never be able to forgive herself if anything happens to Isabella, and she spends the rest of the morning awaiting her appointment with Doctor Ulyanova anxiously, not even bothering to touch her lunch.

"How are you feeling?" Ulyanova asks, as always, as soon as Natasha's taken her seat.

Natasha offers her usual response of an eye roll, and Ulyanova doesn't bother to make a note of it. She's gotten tired of Natasha's tactics now, but that only encourages Natasha to keep them up.

"Irina you've been here for nearly three weeks…"

"Three?" she says in surprise. "I thought it was two?"

"Three tomorrow," Ulyanova says softly. "You're not getting better."

"Maybe I don't want to _get better_." She says the last two words mockingly, as though it is a ridiculous notion, and Ulyanova sighs.

"There is a centre," she says, "Not too far from here. It's running trials for some new medication. The doctors there tell me that you'd be a prime candidate for it, if you wanted."

"Prime in what sense?" Natasha asks suspiciously.

"Well," Ulyanova says. "You're not responding to normal methods in the _slightest_. You refuse to talk about your situation, your current medication is having absolutely no effect on you. We're at a bit of a dead end, if I'm honest. You don't _want_ to recover, and that's a very specific mindset, and it's something these drugs are designed to deal with."

"What's the success rate?"

Ulyanova looks through her notes, then pulls out a sheet of headed paper, the crest in the top left corner bearing the words _Yanayev Institute_.

"Sixty three percent of patients have shown definite signs of improvement. That was on the last trial, they've tweaked the meds a little bit since then, so hopefully that'll bring it up a bit."

"Any side effects?"

"Nausea," Ulyanova says, as though it's nothing. "Diarrhoea, increased perspiration. In some rare cases there have been hallucinations but that can be said for a lot of fully tested drugs."

"I…" Natasha begins, before casting her eyes around the room in false hesitation. "Yeah, sure. Whatever."

"I really think you'll benefit from it," Ulyanova says, picking up her pen and leaning forward to fill in the form attached to the trial information. "The doctors there are experts in their field."

Natasha stares at the ceiling, trying to feel happy that she's finally making progress. Her victory is an empty one, however. She doubts she'll be transferred before tomorrow morning, and who knows what they'll do to Isabella in that time.

When the thought of Isabella, suffering at the hands of Yanayev becomes too much, Natasha tries to focus on Loki, and the fact that sooner, rather than later, she'll be seeing him again. It almost puts the whole assignment at risk of being blown, because this thought alone is enough to elicit a small, contented smile from her.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **So this chapter was the ball ache of the century. Anyway, it's done now, and is here for your reading pleasure. This may be the last chapter I post for a week or two as I'm getting dragged into hospital tomorrow to have my chest carved open on Wednesday. So you know, as excuses go, it's not terrible. Still, rest assured I will be typing away in my ward once I'm conscious again, so hopefully it won't be too long a wait. Hope you enjoy this one in the meantime.

* * *

**Turn**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

It's a full two days later before Natasha's transfer gets fully signed off by the powers that be. Happily, there are no more appointments with Doctor Ulyanova, but that _does_ mean that she's subjected to double arts and craft sessions. During a clay workshop, she was caught tracing one of the pink, bumpy scars on her wrists with the tip of her index finger, and the co-ordinator promptly removed the blunt plastic clay knife from her vicinity. To make matters worse, Isabella and Anastasia's absence only results in more drawn out sessions, with no idle conversation to take the edge off of the tedium. Every time her mind wanders to them, which is often, she feels sick, and has to push the thoughts from her mind, because she can't do any more for them any sooner. She can't afford to put the entire assignment at risk because she was stupid enough to make friends, then let it get to her when they're at risk of falling victim to the very process she's been sent here to destroy. She's so close, too close to fuck it up now. She doesn't know whether she's over the biggest hurdle or not. Either getting in is the hardest part, relying too much on too many variables for her liking, or taking down the entire facility is, with too many security protocols and nothing but a magic hair clip for her to defend herself and/or kill with.

There is one faintly glowing ember of confidence left, deep down in her chest, underneath all the over-analysis, the paranoia, her worries about Isabella and Anastasia, and her near constant background yearning for Loki. That one ember reminds her that being unarmed has never affected her success before, that her resourcefulness and ruthlessness will ensure that Yanayev will get his just desserts, and she will take down every god damn brick of that facility. More than that, though, she'll get Isabella and Anastasia out, before they can do any irreversible damage to the girls, and more, even than that, she'll be back in New York within the week, and even better, back to Asgard, back to Loki, and hopefully, if he's been doing his reading, back to one of the best damn poker players in the nine realms.

She almost smiles as she's escorted down corridors, towards the exit, catching herself at the last second. She reminds herself of pale, clammy skin and unnatural blue eyes, and it's as though icy water has been doused over that last ember as she exits through the final set of doors, where a people carrier is waiting, door open. Two heavy set men in dark blue scrubs are standing beside it, hands clasped in front of them, unreadable expressions on their faces. Natasha can _smell _the dirty on them. The difference between them and the care home staff is so obvious to her that she can't believe nobody's even questioned them before.

To her surprise, Doctor Ulyanova is waiting for her as well, her arms folded across her chest, her whole body trembling with the cold.

"Good luck," she says, teeth chattering as she bares them in a smile. "And should you wish to talk to me, the centre has my phone number, so you can call me any time. I know you're not really a chatter box, but I thought I'd mention it, just in case…" She glances down at her feet, unable to maintain eye contact with the hollow, steely gaze Natasha sends her way.

"Thanks," Natasha says softly, catching Ulyanova by surprise. She looks up in shock, as though she's not convinced she's heard her correctly.

"That's all right," she says uncertainly. "You're still my patient, as far as I'm concerned, even if you do move elsewhere."

"Has anyone ever called you before?" Natasha asks, hoping her question doesn't sound suspicious to her escorts. Ulyanova frowns, staring at the ground and shuffling her feet.

"No," she says quietly. "But then I hear the centre's very comfortable and the doctors are very good. I guess everybody forgets about me, even if I don't forget about them." She smiles sadly, then holds her hand out to Natasha, who shakes it, before getting in the car, fastening her seat belt, her mind whirring. The shorter, stockier escort climbs into the driving seat, while the other climbs into the back with Natasha, sitting directly opposite her, his large form spilling over onto the seat next to him. He slides the door shut, and as they pull away, she hears the click of the automatic door lock.

She stares out of the window, the sky darkening, snow lightly fluttering past the window. She considers Ulyanova for a while, eventually coming to the conclusion that she doesn't realise where she's sending Natasha off to, where she's doubtlessly sent dozens of other patients, with the best will in the world, labouring under the delusion that these drug trials are yielding positive results for the patients, as opposed to those at the top.

If Ulyanova isn't involved, it does beg the question of who is. Most likely someone who either hasn't taken a hippocratic oath, or has long since discarded its onerous sentiments.

"The last one was talkative."

Natasha's skin prickles at the mention of Isabella and Anastasia, but she simply shrugs her shoulders.

"Cat got your tongue?"

Natasha stares out of the window, resting her forehead against the glass as the road widens out and becomes bumpier, the sets of oncoming headlights growing less and less frequent.

"She was good fun," the escort continues, with all the persistence of Ulyanova, but none of the decency. "Much easier to wind up than you are. But then she was _mental_."

Natasha grinds her teeth, her stomach churning at the idea of Isabella getting upset by this asshole. Anastasia would have given as good as she'd gotten, but it's a question of whether Anastasia will exhibit a sense of protectiveness over Isabella, and face off any taunts with her own poisonous comebacks, or whether the idea of ganging up on Isabella will be too tempting to pass up.

When they arrive at the gates, the guards take a full walk around the car, one dropping to his knees to check the underneath, while the other opens the door, pops his head in, then stares at Natasha for a good few seconds, before turning to the escort opposite her and raising an eyebrow. After a moment of silent communication between them, the guard retreats, slides the car door shut, and the gates are opened for them. They proceed slowly along the track, which, once they're inside the perimeter of the grounds, becomes a smooth, tarmac road, complete with line markings, speed limits, and give way points.

The building itself is a very boring, boxy sort of place, with small tinted windows, whitewashed concrete walls, and heavy, reinforced doors. When they pull up, the escort holds up a finger, instructing her to remain in her seat, while he and the driver get out of the car. After a short interlude, during which the driver rapidly smokes a cigarette, Natasha is beckoned to join them. She keeps a firm hold on her small plastic bag with her few items of clothing - the black trousers she travelled in, a couple of t-shirts, and some pyjamas provided by the care home.

From the corner of her eye, she sees the driver stand in front of a retina scanner, then swipe an ID card through a reader, before the small LED light above it turns green and the doors slide open. The escorts flank her, making her feel claustrophobic, and she absentmindedly traces the scars on her wrists as she looks around, her movements purposefully jittery as she takes in all the details of the obsessively clean reception. She can smell the disinfectant that the floors have been scrubbed with, as well as the sickly air freshener that tries and fails to mask the harsh, chemical smell. There are doors to her left, doors to her right, and straight ahead is a desk, with a small office behind it. The receptionist on the desk, a woman with more lipstick than should really be necessary, bares her teeth in a smile as they approach.

"Good afternoon gentlemen, what do we have here?"

"Irina Dezhnyov," the escort says gruffly, dumping a folder on the receptionist's counter. She pulls it towards her and flips open the cover, her eyes scanning the first page before she clicks a few things on her computer, then whirls around on her chair, to face the office behind.

"Anna! Will you show Miss Dezhnyov to her room please?"

A nurse appears from the office, also wearing dark blue scrubs, her hair tied in a high pony tail. She nods towards the doors on the right, and Natasha starts walking towards them, her escorts hanging around the front desk to speak further with the receptionist. Anna takes her ID card out and swipes it while her iris is scanned, and there is a quiet clunk as the magnetic locks are released.

Anna doesn't have much to say, and so they walk in silence, Natasha making mental notes of door numbers, staircases, and eventually, they stop at a door on the right side of the corridor. Anna presses a few buttons on the control panel next to it.

"Put your hand on the reader."

Natasha does as she's told, and waits, stock still while her hand is scanned.

"It's so you can come and go as you please during the day," Anna says. "Everything you need is in this section of corridor. Lounge," she gestures to the opposite door, then crosses the corridor and pushes it open. Inside is a fairly simple room with a number of armchairs and a large television fixed to the wall. "You'll eat in dining room next door," she gestures to the next door along from it. "Dinner will be in twenty minutes. Just go in."

Natasha nods silently.

"You'll have a meeting with your consultant tomorrow afternoon. I'll take you to see him after lunch."

"Okay."

Anna returns to Natasha and reaches past her to push open the bedroom door. "Everything you need should be in there. If not, ask someone."

Natasha nods and steps inside. Just before the door swings shut, however, she catches the door and turns around. "Where are the other patients?"

"I'm sorry?" Anna bristles, clasping her hands in front of her, and Natasha worries that she's said too much.

"Doctor Ulyanova, she said there were a lot of patients here."

"Oh," Anna says, relaxing a little. "Oh they're all in separate areas. We find that they respond better with a more tranquil environment. Often these sorts of situations can result in patients setting one another off."

"Like crying babies?"

"_Exactly_," Anna says with a wry smile. "Now, make yourself at home before dinner."

Natasha lets the door swing shut and the magnetic locks click into place. The room is slightly nicer than her one at the care home - the bed is a little wider, the mattress a little thicker, and the duvet a little fuller. The walls are painted a calming pastel shade of green, and Natasha sets her clothes down on top of the dresser. She opens the door to her bathroom and pokes her head inside, the automatic lights flickering on to reveal a simple, but modern set up, with the shower head looking like it packs more of a punch than her previous accommodation. Closing the door, Natasha heads over to the bed and lays down on it, staring up at the ceiling, one arm resting across her forehead. She doesn't know how long it'll be before she can take action, but what she does know is that she needs a better tour of this place than the one she's just had. She's seen one section of corridor on one level of the entire building, and she can't make any destructive plans until she has a vague idea of layout. If she had to hazard a guess, she'd say that everything she needs to focus on is probably on the left side of the building, completely separate from the residential section. The top floor may be dedicated to offices, potentially Yanayev's, if he was keen to have a view of the surrounding forests and tracks.

Try as she might, she can't keep the uncomfortable swirling feeling in her chest at bay. Isabella and Anastasia are here somewhere, but Anna's answer about each patient having their own section doesn't add up, given the size of the building and the number of patients that are supposedly here. Isabella and Anastasia _are_ the newest recruits, after herself, so maybe there's enough room to house a few people, before Yanayev and his people do whatever they're planning. She tries to swallow down her worry, but the more she forces herself to not think about it, the more she finds herself thinking about Loki, and that only makes the swirling transform into a very obvious ache in her ribcage. She tries to remind herself that she'll be done soon, she'll be back with him and all will be fine and Fury will give her a break because this hasn't exactly been a walk in the park. She'll be able to spend her time playing poker and reading books with Loki. Maybe he'll even teach her to skim stones in the forest lagoon. She's never learned, never taken the time to master a skill that doesn't involve murder or survival. After all of her patience with him, all of her gentle encouragement towards a more stress-free way of life, it would be nice for him to teach her something, and maybe he can learn a little bit of patience and tolerance in the process.

She sighs heavily, and with her mind still worlds away, she pushes herself up from the bed and leaves her bedroom. The dining room door opens without the need for any scanning, and inside is a table big enough for four, perhaps six at a push, and yet there is only one chair. On the table is a selection of food, far too much for one person, steam spiralling up into the air from the various plates. It looks almost as good as the feasts on Asgard, and Natasha takes a seat, before she begins helping herself to food. As she fills her plate, an uneasy thought strikes her. Surely they must know that the food at the care home is dire, and this welcoming feast is the proverbial gingerbread house in the middle of the forest. She raises her plate in front of her face and sniffs at the food cautiously. Maybe the _treatment_ begins as soon as she enters the building, and it's this thought that results her deciding to fully inspect her bedroom later on, in case there are any suspicious air vents.

She puts her plate back on the table, then picks up her fork and scoops up some mashed potato. She takes a cautious bite, rolling it around in her mouth to check for any oddities - an unusual texture, a foreign flavour - but there's nothing. She eats slowly, knowing that if she doesn't eat at all, it will raise suspicion, but if she wolfs it down, she's in danger of not feeling any potential ill-effects until she's consumed too much to do anything about it. She tries the vegetables next, which look particularly appealing given that the peas are a bright, cheerful shade of green, the carrots a vivid orange, and the cauliflower fluffy and white. She'd almost forgotten how vegetables ought to look, after her stint in the care home, but she can taste the full flavour of them as she chews, glad to finally have something other than bland mush to swallow down.

After half an hour of caution, she's feeling just fine, and so she tries her luck with the chicken, the skin of which is beautifully crispy, the meat tender and juicy. She can't taste anything wrong with it, and she wonders whether she's being overly paranoid, or whether there can be such a thing as overly paranoid in a place like this. She doesn't know their method of treatment at all, whether it all goes ahead under the guise of proper medical treatment right until the last moment, or whether they take them out as soon as they get through the door.

Having thought far too much on the subject, Natasha pushes her plate away and leaves the dining room, her stomach half full, while her paranoia eats away at her. She places her hand flat against the scanner outside her bedroom, and the door unlocks. As soon as she gets inside, she leans back against the door, narrowing her eyes as she looks around the walls. There's an air vent on the far side, in the corner above her bed, and Natasha scans the rest of the room for any potential hidden cameras. There are so few things in the room that hiding one, even a small one, would be a challenge indeed, but if the rooms were built with surveillance in mind, then maybe it's not such a big ask after all. She looks up at the ceiling, and spots the smallest pin prick in the plaster, one tiny black speck that would otherwise go unnoticed. She pulls her eyes away from it and looks down at the floor, trying to estimate what coverage it has. She glances at the ceiling above her bed, and there's no speck there, nor is there a speck above the door, just the one in the centre of the room which she would guess covers most of the main floor space.

She heads over to the bed, climbing onto it, the mattress sinking beneath her weight. She stands on her tip toes, using one hand to balance herself against the wall, then gently levers off the plastic cover of the air vent. She's not sure whether it's a sigh of relief, or disappointment that escapes her, but all she can see is a normal air vent, no exposed pipes, nothing out of the ordinary, and her heartbeat, which has been racing for the last few moments, begins to settle. She hates the paranoia that goes hand in hand with an assignment such as this. She hates feeling like a scaredy cat, checking for every fiendish possibility, her fears at risk of revealing her true identity. But, as she reminds herself, whenever she feels that way, scared keeps you safe. Had her dinner been poisoned (and she's still not sure it wasn't) and she'd scoffed down plateful after plateful, she may have turned into one of those victims that has left Bocharov in therapy. Had she not checked for cameras, she might have done something foolish and given herself away in full view of her captors. And had she not checked the air vent for any sinister alterations, she might have been killed in her sleep, none the wiser, assignment failed.

And she would never have seen Loki again.

She lays down, that horrible thought causing a nasty pang in her chest, and stubbornly tries to clear her head. It doesn't work, however, because she's worrying about him, constantly, and when she tries to get herself a nice blank headspace, he comes to the forefront of her mind, goading her, taunting her, and throwing up all the dreadful possibilities that she might return to. She considers briefly his skeletal frame when she first saw him, in the dungeons, and hopes he's been eating at least enough to maintain his still waif-like form. If she returns and he's taken steps backwards, if he's unhealthy, after how long it's taken for him to be able to stand without his legs quivering, she knows she'll be devastated. She has a very selfish need to return to a perfect Loki, after everything these last few weeks have thrown at her. For once, she wants him to look after her, she wants him to bring her food and set her at ease and calm her down when she wakes in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.

She knows the nightmares will come, once she's out of here. Once she's stopped living one, they'll come for her, and only time will be able to eke them from her. She closes her eyes as the sky outside grows darker and darker, and eventually her lights flicker out, signalling it's time for sleep. She wonders if Isabella and Anastasia are in the next section of corridor, or on the floor above, lying in bed, arguing with one another about what the future holds for them. She wonders if Anastasia, fearing her own demise, is more poisonous than ever, or whether she'll be attempting to butter Isabella up, trying to convince her to keep her.

She taps her fingers against the bedspread, trying to gauge the amount of time passing, but she can't. It's only hours later, when the night outside is pitch black, and she can barely see her hand in front of her face, the silence pressing in upon her like a ten tonne weight, that she realises it must be the early hours of the morning. Deciding there's no time like the present to get her extended tour, she gets out of bed, skirting around the camera's viewing range cautiously, then kneels in front of the door, trying to force her eyes to see better in the dark as she inspects the handle.

She reaches up to the back of her head, and a familiar golden hilt materialises in her hand. Her hair falls loosely around her shoulders as she takes it, and tries to lever it through the gap between the door and the door frame. She manages to catch the latch with the very tip of the knife, but when she pulls at the door she realises that the magnetic locks are still in place at the top. She scowls, sinking her teeth into her lower lip thoughtfully. After a moment, she stands, rising onto the very tips of her toes, arms outstretched, knife in hand, and she slides it through the metal plates, the green light above it flickering to red before a loud, piercing alarm sounds.

Natasha withdraws the knife rapidly, and it morphs back into her hair clip, which she secures in her hair swiftly, while her brain whirs, wondering how the hell she's going to explain this. She can hear footsteps running down the corridor, and she closes her eyes, remembering running for her life on the helicarrier, while Bruce, transformed, gave chase, his only desire to tear her limb from limb.

She bangs fiercely against the door, her palms slapping against the wood, throwing her shoulder against it. She can feel her heart racing, beads of panicked sweat forming on her brow, her breathing fast and shallow. The magnetic lock clunks as it releases, and the door is pushed open, Natasha falling back onto the floor, the harsh light of the corridor outside blinding her.

Within seconds she's being gripped by the upper arms, and she struggles, kicking her legs out.

"Let me out of here! Let me out!"

The nurse locks her arms around Natasha's chest, holding her fast against her, but Natasha continues to squirm.

"Irina, _please - _"

"There's something under there!" Natasha cries, pointing a shaking finger to the dark space under her bed. "I heard it! You have to let me out, _please_!"

"There's _nothing_ under there," the nurse says emphatically. "Noth - "

"I _heard it_," Natasha wails, pushing herself and the nurse away from the bed with all the force her legs can muster.

"Irina, there's nothing, I promise you - "

"There is! There is!" Tears are spilling down her cheeks now, her entire body trembling, but the nurse simply holds her tighter.

"Irina, if you don't calm down I'm going to have to call someone to sedate you, and neither of us want that."

"There is…" Natasha whimpers, her hands gripping at the roots of her hair. "There is…"

The nurse releases her as she starts to settle, then shuffles to the front of the bed, lowering her head down to the ground to look underneath.

"Nothing," she says, pushing herself back up and dusting off her palms. "You see? All this fuss over nothing."

"I heard it," Natasha whispers, covering her eyes with her hands. "I heard it…"

"There are lots of people working here, even at night," the nurse says gently. "Perhaps you heard one of them."

Natasha shakes her head and takes some deep breaths, her hands trembling as she pushes a loose lock of hair away from her face.

"Come on, let's get you back into bed." The nurse stands and pulls back the covers on the bed, gesturing for Natasha to get in. After a moment, Natasha reluctantly stands, steadying herself against the wall, before she staggers over to the bed and falls into it. The nurse tucks the duvet over her and places a hand on her shoulder, while Natasha stares at the wall, the tear tracks drying on her cheeks.

"All right?" the nurse asks.

Natasha nods once, and after the nurse gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze, she bids her goodnight and leaves the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her, immersing the room once more into darkness. Natasha can still feel her body trembling, and pushes away her memories of the helicarrier, searching for something more comforting in the murky depths of her mind.

She tries to grasp at her last night with Loki, of the feeling of his arms locked around her, his breath on her neck, his lips grazing her shoulder. But the more she tries, the less she can get a firm grip on it. The memory dances away from her, until she can no longer remember the exact angle of his cheekbones, or the texture of his hair, tangled between her fingers.

The thing that upsets her the most, however, is that she can no longer recall the exact colour of his eyes.

* * *

"Do you regret your actions?"

"I regret getting caught," Natasha says coolly.

"Have you tried seeking support from your family?"

Natasha lets out an exaggerated sigh and stares at the ceiling, her hands resting in her lap. "My parents died when I was a kid. I have no brothers or sisters, no aunts or uncles. No family. No one."

The consultant makes a note on his pad and frowns. "What about friends?"

"Don't have those," Natasha replies. "Never found much use for them."

She hears the sound of his pen scratching on his paper and taps her index finger against the back of her hand, waiting for the next question. She knows exactly what he's doing. Double checking to make sure that she definitely doesn't have anyone who might come looking for her, who might notice her absence from the world.

"It says in your notes from Doctor Ulyanova that you have a boyfriend."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "Past tense, I think. He's serving a pretty considerable jail sentence and…that's not my problem."

"And how long has he been in jail?"

"About a month now, I think? I've kinda lost track of the time…" Her hands fiddle in her lap and her teeth pull on the inside of her lower lip. She knows she was at the care home for four weeks at least, her only mode of time keeping being the number of times she was served the almost-edible pasta.

The consultant nods, his bushy eyebrows still drawn together in a frown as he flicks through her file.

"Well, the process is fairly simple," he says, putting her file to one side and looking up at her from behind thick lensed glasses. "You'll have your first course of treatment today, and will start to feel the effects immediately. We'll be giving you the drugs intravenously, and you'll need to be restrained as muscle spasms are a fairly common side effect and we don't want you hurting anybody."

"What other side effects are there?"

The consultant twirls his pen in his fingers, his eyes piercing Natasha as he considers her. For a moment, she thinks she's gone too far, asked a much too sensible question for someone who is supposedly a danger to themselves and/or society. After a moment, his gaze softens, just a touch, and he starts to speak.

"You'll suffer some discomfort for a few hours," he says, placing his pen on the desk and steepling his fingers under his chin. "But after that the chemical imbalance in your mind should start to level out, and with that, the physical pain will lessen, until it disappears entirely."

"So it's just one dose? One dose and I'll be cured?"

"That's what we're working towards, but obviously these are trials and as such there _is_ some room for error. It might take another course or two to be fully effective."

"Right," Natasha says simply. "So you're just gonna pump me full of drugs and hope for the best?"

"Providing we detail the results, that qualifies as science," the consultant says with a smile.

Natasha suppresses a shudder, her eyes meeting the consultant's cold blue gaze. He picks up the telephone, dials an extension number, and after a few moments, Natasha hears a tinny voice answer at the other end of the line.

"Yes, Miss Dezhnyov is ready for her first round of treatment. If you could send somebody to collect her?"

Natasha's heart rate doubles, adrenalin pumping through her. She knows that if she allows herself to be strapped down, if that IV comes anywhere near her, she's worse than dead. She'd been hoping for a little more time to get her bearings, to find Isabella and Anastasia, but she imagines they've already cleaned her room out and thrown away all of her belongings. It's not like they think she'll be needing it after her first dose of drugs, and surely they'll need to get it ready for their next human experiment.

She sits quietly, finger tapping on the arm of the sofa while she waits for her escorts to arrive. The consultant continues to watch her, his eyes magnified to alien-like proportions behind his large glasses. Eventually, the door opens, and the two escorts who came to collect her from the care home enter the room, the large, rotund one who had sat opposite her and tried to provoke a reaction from her is first in line, while the shorter, stockier one with nicotine stained fingers follows on behind.

"Treatment room?" the first one asks.

The consultant nods, and gives a dismissive wave of his hand, shooing the escorts and Natasha from the room. She gets up and heads towards the corridor, each escort placing a hand around her upper arm, gripping her firmly as they lead her down the staircase until they reach the ground floor. They frogmarch her through to the reception, but when they get to the wide, open hallway, someone else has just arrived.

Natasha recognises him instantly from the photograph; his bulbous nose and thick black moustache an immediate giveaway. He's wearing an expensive looking, tailored grey suit, his tie fastened with a chunky knot at the base of his throat, a black leather briefcase in his hand.

"Alexei!" he says cheerfully, approaching them. "How are you, my good man?"

"Very well thank you, Mr Yanayev," the larger one responds. "Very well indeed."

"And you, Pavel?"

"Wonderful, Mr Yanayev. You're looking very well yourself!"

Natasha wants to vomit at the level of sycophancy gushing from their mouths, and so she stares at the floor, trying to block out their conversation. She's so well practiced at disappearing into the depths of her mind by now that she manages to lose track of the conversation completely. That is, until Yanayev tilts her chin up with his index finger so he can look her in the eye. He tuts and shakes his head.

"Far too pretty to be trying to kill herself."

"I didn't realise being pretty went hand in hand with having a happy life," Natasha says stiffly.

"Ah, the depressed ones, always so much fun," Yanayev says fondly, smiling at Natasha. She resists the desire to clench her hand into a fist, and even more the desire to land that fist squarely in his face. Her skin prickles uncomfortably as he runs his eyes down her, and Natasha grits her teeth, waiting for it to pass.

"We're just taking her for her first course of treatment, Mr Yanayev," Alexei says. "She'll be good as new by tonight."

Yanayev bares his teeth in a grin, and Pavel sniggers, his fingertips digging painfully into Natasha's arm.

"I'll see you gentlemen later on, I have a meeting with Mr Ivchenko from the care home."

After a couple of overly polite and enthusiastic farewells, complete with good wishes and promises to speak later, Natasha is hauled towards the doors on the left side of the reception. Beyond those, she is marched down a long corridor, and for a moment, she thinks she's going to be taken through the single door at the end, but instead she is dragged off to the right. Alexei pulls his ID card out of his lanyard in order to swipe it, but before he can, there is a blood curdling scream.

Natasha whips her head around to stare at the door at the end of the corridor, knowing full well that the sound came from inside that room. Alexei pauses, twirling his ID card in his fingers, then glances at Pavel.

"Shall we show her?" he asks darkly.

Pavel narrows his eyes. "I'm not getting in trouble for it."

"Don't be such a wimp," Alexei says, then pulls Natasha over to the door, Pavel reluctantly following, his hands dug deep in his pockets as he casts a glance over his shoulder. Alexei slides his ID card and the retina scanner emits a bleep as it approves entry and the door unlocks. He pushes it open, and, one hand grasping Natasha firmly, he hauls her through the doorway, Pavel close behind, shutting the door after them.

The room is large, dimly lit, though in the centre there is a wealth of bright white spot lighting. A balding man in a white lab coat stands in front of two women, who both look like they've seen better days. Their clothes are torn, their faces dirty, and there is something in their posture, slightly crooked, that leaves Natasha feeling uneasy.

"This is what's gonna happen to you," Alexei murmurs, dragging her through a maze of metal containers covered in white sheets. Natasha tries to catch a glimpse of what's under one of them, but Alexei is moving too quickly, only stopping when they reach a collection of lab benches in the centre of the room, surrounding the brightly lit area. The two women are confined by what resembles a boxing ring but instead of ropes strung around the perimeter, there are thick shiny wires. Natasha feels sick, and the closer they draw towards the women, the more and more she begins to understand Bocharov's silence on the matter. Up close, she can see that their eyes are wild, darting around the room, panicked, an unnatural glaze settled over the top of them.

Suddenly, there is a short, sharp, burst of a whistle, and Natasha flinches, Alexei chuckling.

"Sit!"

The two women in the ring sit down on the floor, their eyes still flitting all over the place. The whistle sounds again.

"Lie down!" The man in the lab coat narrows his eyes, surveying the movements of the two women carefully as they both follow his orders. He's about to raise the whistle to his lips for a third time when he notices their presence and turns around. "You shouldn't be in here!" He looks furious with the them, eyebrows contorted into an angry scowl.

"Just wanted to give her a preview!" Alexei says, throwing Natasha forward so she can be seen clearly. She lands on the floor, her elbow jarring against the concrete painfully, and then looks up, meeting the narrowed gaze of the man in the lab coat. He smirks, and there is a burn in Natasha's throat as stomach acid rises.

"A preview? Well take a look at this, my dear." He blows the whistle, loudly and shrilly, then says one word. "Kill."

There is not even a moment's hesitation between the two women, not one second of questioning, nor doubt. They launch at one another, finger nails shredding skin, teeth sinking into flesh, the hisses and the growls and the screeches emanating from them like nothing Natasha has ever heard coming from a human. Hers eyes widen and she scuttles away from the ring, her heart pounding in her chest as she hears the sickening crunch of bone and the desperate howl of pain coming from the skinnier woman. Natasha collides with a metal cage, the white sheet covering it spilling down on top of her, blocking her vision until she manages to pull it away from her.

A flash of sparks blinds her, and Natasha shields her eyes. The heavier woman has thrown the smaller one onto the wires at the edge of the ring. Apparently they're live, because the smaller one's body judders and shudders, current coursing through her, until she is thrown back, landing on the floor of the ring, the singed ends of her hair smoking, the acrid smell of burning flesh finding its way to Natasha's nostrils. She gags, but before she can even think about being sick, she is seized by the neck. Strong skeletal fingers tighten around her, crushing her windpipe, and Natasha scrabbles at them, digging her nails in and prising the fingers away from her.

Alexei and Pavel, eyes wide, rush forward, but Natasha kicks out of them, until she finally breaks the grip of her attacker.

"Get her out of here!" the man in the lab coat yells. "Now!"

Natasha scrambles away from the cage and away from Alexei and Pavel, pushing herself to her feet and staggering past benches and ducking between the metal containers, quickly losing them in the labyrinth of cages.

"If Yanayev finds out about this - "

"He _won't_ find out about this!"

"Just _find her_!"

Natasha skulks between the cages, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand, rather than what the sheets are hiding. It's difficult, her stomach churning, her hands trembling, with the knowledge that there are hundreds of cages in here, each containing a patient who is granted no more space than a dog confined in a kennel. The time has come to act, and after all the waiting she's done, all the paranoia and the worry and the anxiety over not being able to get into the facility, she should feel relieved, but she doesn't. It's not just because this place is like something out of a horror movie, not just because of the sickening treatment of the victims, because while all of those things are affecting her, while she is more scared than she has ever been in her life, that they might just manage to catch her when she least expects it and strip out any last essence of humanity, the fact is that she's shaken by the experience. Her limbs feel weak, her legs jelly-like and unreliable. She knows very well that her time in the hospitals has left her strength diminished, her energy levels low, her muscle memory hazy, but she had always assumed that when the occasion came she would rise to the challenge, and her body would serve her as well as it always has. She was not prepared for the hand that shot through the bars of the cage, and even that brief struggle has drained some of her energy. She hauls oxygen into her lungs in an attempt to compensate, but all it does is quicken her heart rate further, blood pumping forcefully through her veins.

Ever since the consultant informed her that one dose would be enough to _cure her_, Natasha had written off the idea that she might be able to save Isabella and Anastasia. Now, as she makes her way through the cages, she finds herself tugging sheets off of them to glimpse their inhabitants, before moving on to the next one. She needs to be sure, needs to know that she won't be leaving them behind. If there's even the slightest chance that she might be able to get them out unscathed, she has to try. She owes them that much.

She ducks low as the patter of hurried footsteps sounds nearby, a few rows away, and Natasha races along at a crouch, pulling down the sheets as she goes. It only takes the briefest of glances to know that she's not found Isabella and Anastasia yet, but when she gets to the end of the row, she finds herself face to face with Pavel. He seems just as surprised to see her as she is him, and he makes a grab for her, but she dodges and he falls to the floor. He recovers quickly, pushing himself up, and opens his mouth to yell out, but Natasha must have autopilot engaged, because she has him in a headlock instantly, her spare hand gripping his jaw as she sharply tugs it to one side. There is a loud crack, and Natasha drops him to the floor, where he lies, motionless. She doesn't waste any time, and hurries along the next row, pulling the sheets down from the cages until, from the corner of her eye, she spots a head of lank, dark hair. She skids to a halt and backtracks, crouching down in front of the cage, her fingers curling around one of the bars.

She's sitting in the corner, her knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them, her head bowed. She's skinnier than Natasha's ever seen her, and it's only been a few days since they spent an afternoon splashing watercolours onto large sheets of paper. Her heart pounds in her chest, knowing that she's going to get her answer, one way or another.

"Isabella?"

She looks up, and Natasha's heart leaps, but then she sees her eyes, clouded, with that same abnormal glaze that the girls in the ring had.

"Anastasia?"

There's a split second in which Natasha clings on to her last shred of hope, but then Isabella pounces, bony fingers outstretched, teeth gnashing, and Natasha throws herself back from the cage, colliding with the one on the far side with a clatter. Isabella's hand reaches through the bars, grasping for her, but Natasha doesn't have time to worry about that, because the heavy footfalls of Alexei are getting louder and louder. He rounds the corner, beads of sweat dripping from his brow, then breaks into a sprint when he sees her, lunging for her.

Natasha rolls to the side, and Alexei crashes into one of the cages, upsetting the pale blond man inside who shrieks, his arms reaching through the bars to try and grab at Alexei. His hand closes around Alexei's ankle but Alexei kicks out viciously at him and he recoils. Natasha springs to her feet and Alexei lunges again, but she grabs him by the wrist and twists it until she hears a satisfying snap. His other fist collides with the side of her head and she finds herself trying to blink away the stark whiteness that has clouded her vision. She lashes out blindly, her knuckles connecting with him, and he stumbles, her vision clearing, eyes readjusting to the low light around the cages.

"You can't escape this," Alexei says, blood dripping from his mouth. He spits, a splatter of red landing on the floor, then wipes at his face with the back of his sleeve. "You were stupid enough to try and kill yourself, and this is what you get for it."

"Yeah," Natasha says, her eyes fixed on him as she tries to gauge his next move. "I'm the stupid one."

There is a brief look of confusion on Alexei's face before Natasha spins, her hand flying to the back of her head, her dagger materialising right on cue. She sinks it into his chest, his eyes widening with surprise, then she twists the knife a full one hundred and eighty degrees before wrenching it out of him. He falls face first to the floor, blood pooling quickly around him. He twitches for a moment, then stills, and Natasha wipes her dagger on the back of his scrubs, before she looks around, getting her bearings. She takes one last look at Isabella, who has retreated back to the corner of her cage and is now gnawing on her own forearm. Natasha turns and runs.

When she arrives back in the centre, the man in the lab coat has just ushered the victor of his patient death match back into her cage. Natasha approaches silently, drawing her hair up into a tight knot and securing it with her hair clip. He locks the cage door, covers it with a sheet, and then turns. She gleans more satisfaction than she ought to from the terror that lights his eyes, but she doesn't enjoy it for too long, and swiftly breaks his neck before he has the faintest chance of calling for help. Natasha takes the corner of the sheet and wipes Alexei's blood from her hands. She can feel nasty bruise forming on her cheek where he hit her, and is sure that she'll have another set of finger shaped bruises around her neck to match the ones she was given by Frejir. Working quickly, and trying to block out her surroundings - the scratching of nails on metal, the occasional hiss or shriek, an angry thud - Natasha takes the lab coat and pulls it on. It's far too large for her, and she has to roll the sleeves up three times before she can use her hands properly. In the pocket is an ID card, which will solve half of her problems for her. The solution to the other half of her problems is sitting in her victim's eye socket, and it's with a sigh of resignation that she lowers herself to her knees, taking hold of her dagger once more.

Were she anywhere else, she would consider this barbaric. But really, that's all relative, and despite having killed three people already, she is a veritable saint in comparison the man lying before her. There is a nauseating squelch, followed by a pop which makes Natasha's stomach lurch. She rips the eye from the skull, wiry optic nerve and all, then stands, slipping it into her pocket and wiping her hands on the bloody sheet once more. She secures her hair, her face sliding into a mask of normality, then approaches the lab benches.

At every other bench, next to the sinks, are four small gas taps. She turns the first four on, and then the second four, and then all the rest, the gentle hissing almost lost amongst the restlessness of the patients. As the air starts to look wavy and fluid, Natasha heads towards the door on the far side of the lab. She takes one last look over her shoulder before she slides her ID card through the reader, her heart heavy with the knowledge that she will never be able to wipe out this much red.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so, _so _sorry."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Decidedly _not_ proofread, but I'm getting cut open in seven hours and after that I'll be without internetz for a horrifying 36 hours, and I figured that you'd rather have 7000 words now with a few iffy ones here and there, than no words at all. Am I right? I'll see you on the other side, kids.

* * *

**Turn**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

She reaches the top floor without much incident. There is a tense moment when she passes a woman in blue scrubs, who nods and smiles at her, and Natasha returns the gesture and carries on, her heart thudding against the inside of her ribcage. She walks straight past Yanayev's secretary, despite her jabbering about how she needs to have an appointment and that Mr Yanayev is busy with a guest, and pushes open the door to Yanayev's office.

"What the _hell_ d'you think you're doing?" Yanayev demands, rising from his seat.

Natasha doesn't say a word, but when she pulls her dagger from the back of her head, her hair falling around her shoulders, Yanayev's eyes widen in shock.

"You're the new one, aren't you?"

Natasha looks down at the man in the seat opposite Yanayev's. He's frozen with shock, and she assumes that he's Mr Ivchenko, from the care home.

"You're the one who sold me to this asshole?" she asks.

"There's no exchange of _money_," Yanayev says, but then he catches himself, halfway to admittance. "You're delusional, that's why you're _here_."

Natasha ignores him, still focused on Ivchenko. "Are you the person who sends all the patients with no families to this facility?"

Ivchenko doesn't deny it, and that's all the confirmation Natasha needs. She walks calmly around the table, and, while he's distracted by her dagger, she swiftly snaps his neck.

Yanayev lunges for the door, but Natasha is too fast, vaulting over the table, and landing a kick to his throat. He falls back, winded, then drops to his knees, his eyes watering, hand clutching at his throat. Natasha grips him by the hair, and despite her desire to draw this out for him, she knows that it can only be so long before someone smells gas on the lower floors. She slices her dagger across his throat, the skin splitting with ease, blood spraying all over the floorboards. Yanayev shudders for a moment, and then Natasha drops him, before moving over to the gas pipes in the corner and piercing her knife through them. Once she hears a satisfying hiss, she leaves the office, closing the door behind her, and raises an eyebrow at Yanayev's secretary, who still looks shocked and appalled that Natasha dared enter the office without having an appointment.

Natasha smiles inwardly to herself. That girl ain't seen nothing yet.

As she travels down the corridor, Natasha periodically plunges her knife into the gas pipes, then, when she reaches the staircase, descends to the floor below and repeats the exercise. She skips the ground floor, deciding that the gas from the lab will be sufficient enough to deal with the entire floor, and there's no way in hell she'll manage to do such damage without getting caught. The upper floors are mostly empty, but from the little she's seen, she is well aware that the ground floor is the busiest of the lot, with the reception constantly manned, nurses wandering around the place, and escorts hanging around, avoiding work.

She reaches the basement, and the thick, main pipes she finds are like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. She sinks her dagger into them, blessing Frigga's magic for making it so easy, then , turning to the electrical cupboard, swipes her ID card in the reader. The light turns red, and Natasha holds up the eyeball, hoping that the retina scan will resolve her issues. A red message flashes up on the reader.

_Access Denied._

Natasha feels sick, though that might be something to do with the speed that the gas is filling the small corridor. She swipes her ID card again in one last vain attempt, but she has no luck. The LED flashes red, taunting her. Getting desperate, she slams her shoulder against the door with all her might, but it doesn't shift, not one inch. She looks around for something with a little more heft to it, and, in the corner, by the door, spots a large, red fire extinguisher.

She goes and picks it up, gets a feel for the weight, then takes a run up.

It's not something she'd choose to do again, landing in a heap in a cupboard, but it _is_ effective nonetheless. She takes the lid off of the fusebox and flips all the switches to the off position, but when the lights stay on, Natasha frowns, looking around the cupboard, just in case she's missed something.

Of course, a big building like this would have to have a back up generator, and this has a separate fusebox. Deciding to go the full mile, Natasha plunges her knife into it, and it emits a shower of spark, a crackle of current lighting her blade before they are blanketed in darkness.

She coughs, the gas getting to her now, and so she covers her nose and mouth with the top of her lab coat and feels her way back towards the door. She hears the thundering of footsteps and flattens herself against the wall, before a couple of men sprint past her in the dark. Natasha rushes towards the stairs, knowing she only has moments left before one of them finds a torch and the other finds the fuses flipped. The reception is pitch black, and she barges into several people on her way towards the door.

The mechanism on it is out of power and so she has to prise the glass apart with her fingertips, until there's a large enough gap for her to slip through. She escapes into the cold, can hear the pounding of boots on concrete and has to rely more on her hearing and instinct than she can on her sight. She knows the vague direction of the gates, and breaks into a run, the scent of the guards catching on the wind as she passes them. She continues for another couple of hundred yards, until, eventually, she slams into wall, the impact knocking her back as she hauls in oxygen to try and recover from her sprint and the collision. She feels her way along the wall, her fingers brushing over the cool metal and occasionally finding rounded rivets, until she finds a handle. She pulls, and the gate creaks, but she doesn't care. Everyone else is at the main building, or if they're not, they'll never find her in the darkness.

Natasha squeezes through the opening and heads for the woods, running faster than she ever has in her life. She knows it's only going to be seconds before they flip the fuses, and the spark of the lightbulbs will set everything in motion.

She knows she's reached the outskirts of the woods when she trips over a tree root, falling face first onto the hard ground, grazing the palms of her hands. She scrambles to her feet, horribly aware of the sound of her pulse, thudding in her ears, but then she is deafened. She feels the heat, sudden and intense, and then gone as soon as it arrived, and then is struck in the back of the head by something hard and hot. She keeps running, blinking the pain away, and doesn't look over her shoulder. Her path is dimly lit by an orange glow filtering through the trees and she pushes herself forward, desperate to make it past the main road before any of the emergency services arrive.

Her lungs are burning in her chest and she keeps thinking about the lab, about all those people, locked in cages, and all because they weren't _well_. All because they didn't have any family to vouch for them. All because they wouldn't be _missed_. She thinks of Isabella and Anastasia, and tries to swallow the lump in her throat, but she will miss them. She will miss them for the rest of her life.

* * *

It's past midnight when she hears the key turn in the lock. Clumsy footsteps stumble into the house and the door closes noisily. When he switches the light on in the lounge, he nearly has a heart attack, gasping and falling back against the doorframe.

"_Shit_!" he hisses. "What are you doing here?"

"Come in, sit down, and I'll explain as much as I can," Natasha says coolly.

Daniil follows instructions, his gaze wary as he approaches the sofa and takes a seat. He clasps his hands in his lap, and takes a good look at her, his eyes lingering on the dark purple bruise on her cheek, the finger marks and scratches around her neck, her bloodied lab coat, and her shaking, frozen hands.

"I need your help," Natasha says. "If you're willing."

"Anything," Daniil replies quietly. He pulls off his jumper and tosses it to her, the wool still warm from his own body heat, and Natasha pulls it on gratefully, wrapping her arms tightly around her middle, trying to rub some warmth back into herself.

"Thanks," she says softly.

"Irina, what's going on?" Daniil asks. "Have you…escaped?"

"My name's not Irina," Natasha replies, looking at the floor. "And I'm sorry for lying to you, but I'm gonna have to carry on lying, and I'm sorry about that, too."

Daniil looks confused, and there is a slight glaze to his eyes. Her stomach lurches as she thinks of the caged victims of earlier, but then she remembers that Daniil is a patron of the local bar, and not a science experiment, now lying in ashes. She closes her eyes and rests her head in her hands, gripping her hair. She's haunted by the image of Isabella and Anastasia, choking on gas before they were blown to smithereens.

"Who are you?" Daniil asks gently. 'If not Irina?"

Natasha swallows down the stomach acid that has risen in her throat and sighs, pressing her lips together. The less he knows, the better it is for him. She doesn't want him to get mixed up in anything nasty. He can't get a flight out like she can, he can't just assume another identity and run away. He has a life, a proper one, and she won't ruin it by putting him at risk. Well, at least not any more risk than she really has to.

"It doesn't matter. Do you have a car?"

Daniil shakes his head.

"Shit," Natasha whispers. She takes a steadying breath and rubs her face tiredly.

"I have a bike, though!" Daniil says brightly.

"That'll do," Natasha says, standing up. Daniil rises too, grabs his keys, and heads out into the pokey little kitchen. He unlocks the back door, a gust of icy wind sending a chill shuddering down Natasha's spine. She tucks her chin into the collar of Daniil's jumper, trying to find some protection from the cold, and follows him out to the rickety shed in his back yard. Daniil unloops the hook of the padlock from the latch and pulls the door open, snow piling around it as it clears a path. Daniil ducks inside, and Natasha can't see much in the dark, but moments later he returns, accompanied by a near constant squeaking noise, with a rusting, soft tyred bicycle.

"You're kidding me," Natasha says. "You are _kidding_ me."

"What?" Daniil asks. "I said I had a bike."

"I thought you meant a motorbike!" Natasha says exasperatedly. She covers her face with her hands and takes a few deep breaths, trying to pull together a plan b. She had hoped that Daniil would have _something_. At the very least, she has managed to stay out of sight for a few hours, but she knows that she's going to have to venture further into the city before she can get out again. It's the last thing she wants to do, surround herself with more people. She had hoped that by getting into Daniil's house unnoticed that she was over the last hurdle, that he'd be able to get her out of the city, far enough out so that she can make the call and it not get picked up as suspicious. She's been hearing sirens wailing all evening, and the air is still smokey from the blaze, which she doesn't think has long been put out.

"How far do you need to go?" Daniil asks, taking the bike back into the shed before returning and closing the door behind him. He slips the padlock onto the latch but doesn't bother locking it. Natasha doubts anyone who stole his bike would get very far anyway. He'd probably catch them on foot before they made it to the end of the street.

"A hundred miles or so?" Natasha says. "I just need to get out of Moscow."

"Are the care home looking for you?" Daniil asks quietly, glancing down at his feet as he rubs his forearm absentmindedly. "Do you need to be in hospital?"

"No," Natasha replies. "The care home aren't looking for me. They discharged me."

"Really?" He sounds sceptical, and Natasha sighs.

"Daniil, the less you know, the better, trust me."

"Why should I? I don't even know your name, everything you've told me about yourself is a complete lie!"

Natasha drags him back inside the house and kicks the door shut, and for a moment, Daniil looks scared. At his expression, she softens, knowing how much upset she's already caused him.

"I haven't lied to you entirely," she says. "My parents _did_ die when I was a kid."

"I'm sorry," Daniil says sheepishly. He chews on his lower lip and glances up at her, his brow creased in concern.

"And I _was_ a ballerina…a long time ago…"

"Really?"

She nods. "Yeah…"

"And the boyfriend?" he asks tentatively. "The one in jail?"

It's Natasha's turn to become sheepish now. She takes a seat at the kitchen table and tucks her hair behind her ear.

'My…_kind_ _of _boyfriend is _kind of_ in jail."

"Did he _kind of_ kill some people?" Daniil asks, eyebrow raised.

"No, he actually did that," Natasha says firmly, nodding her head. Daniil's eyebrows shoot up high in surprise on his forehead and he takes a step back. "Don't worry, he's not gonna come for you or anything. He's not a bad guy."

"He's a murderer," Daniil says obviously, as though this contradicts her previous statement. For most people, she supposes it would. But most people see the world in black and white. Most people see good people and bad people and no one in between, even though most people _are_ in between, they're just far too high and mighty to realise it.

"People change."

"Murdered people don't," Daniil says coldly.

"Well no, they don't," Natasha says softly. "But - "

"You deserve better than a locked up murderer," he says in a rush. "You know that, don't you?"

Natasha sighs and fiddles with the cuff of Daniil's jumper. She's almost starting to feel warm again, thanks to its tight, thick knit. "Actually," she says, looking up at him. "I think we're a pretty good match. We're better people…together."

Daniil shakes his head, his hands resting on his hips, then looks around the kitchen. He lets out a long sigh, then turns to Natasha. "You're going to steal a car, aren't you?"

Natasha nods, and looks up at him, hoping he'll give her a head start before he calls the police. She doesn't know what she expected, really. Daniil, so decent he could give Steve a run for his money, was never going to approve of this. It's only going to be so long before he puts two and two together and realises that the explosion on the horizon can be traced back to her, and that she's running from the emergency services who are swarming the area.

"Well," Daniil says. "With all these police around, you're going to need a lookout."

Natasha blinks. "I'm sorry?"

"Well I'm hardly going to let you go on your own," Daniil says. "Not in that state." He gestures towards her face and bites his lip. After a moment, he breaks into a smile, and Natasha knows that smile. It's the exact same one she wore when, after having read, but not believed ay of the information in Thor's file, she met him for the first time, properly, on the helicarrier - one of complete disbelief with a hint of _what the fuck has my life become_?

"I don't want you to get in trouble," Natasha says, but she knows it's no use when Daniil waves a dismissive hand at her. He takes a deep breath, as though steeling himself for the inevitable, then disappears into the hallway. Moments later, he returns, zipping up his coat and pulling on a pair of fleecy gloves.

"Are you going to be warm enough like that? Or do you want to borrow a coat?"

"I'll steal a car with a heater," Natasha says. "But thanks."

She stands, and Daniil leads the way to the front door, opening it a little and peering outside before he allows her to slip past him and into the street. It's deserted, bar the guy in the liquor store who cuts a lonely figure, leaning on his counter and flipping through a magazine, his chin propped up on the heel of his palm.

"We need to go further into the city," Natasha says. "Better choice."

Daniil shoves his hands in the pockets of his coat and follows Natasha as she strides quickly along the pavement, head bowed against the bitterly cold wind. They walk in silence, Natasha keeping her eyes peeled for movement. As they draw further into the city, the streets become busier, revellers spilling out onto the streets from bars with late licences. The cars are soon lined up next to the pavements, with no free spots in sight, but it's not until they find a more secluded side street that Natasha picks her vehicle.

It's nothing special, which is good. If the owners make an insurance claim, they'll probably get more than the car's even worth. It's an old Ford, not ancient, but old enough to not have any serious security measures in place. Natasha glances at Daniil, and he stands close to the door, his eyes on the end of the street, and she crouches down behind him, pulling her dagger from her hair.

"Where the hell did you get that?"

"Watch the street!" Natasha hisses. She slides the blade under the edge of the door, and with a little bit of wiggling, and a fair bit of force, she pops the lock. Her heart freezes in her chest as she half expects for the car's alarm to begin wailing when she opens the door. It doesn't, and she breathes a sigh of relief, sliding quickly into the driver's seat and reaching under the steering wheel. It's been years since she's done this, which is how she knows she wouldn't stand a chance with a new car but, this old thing? Shouldn't be too difficult. After much fiddling with the wires and a few furtive glances through the frosty windscreen, the engine roars into life. Daniil circles around the car and pulls open the other door, getting into the passenger seat.

"What are you doing?" Natasha asks.

"Coming with you."

"Why?"

"So I know that you get there safe."

Natasha doesn't have time to argue, and instead she pulls away slowly, trying not to draw attention. The last thing she needs is to get caught with Daniil, for him to get wrapped up in her crimes, but she can't sit around in a stolen car and try and talk him to his senses. She's not going too far anyway, and she's going to need to borrow some money from him to make a call. Providing she gets to the other end, SHIELD can sort out the clean up and erase both of their fingerprints from the car before they abandon it on some deserted road.

They reach the highway fairly quickly, and Natasha estimates that the half tank of fuel should get them a decent distance. Kaluga seems like a decent bet, and so, after forty miles, the heater on full blast, Natasha pulls into a service station.

"Do you have any money I could borrow? I need to make a call."

Daniil pulls his wallet from his pocket and empties all of his change into Natasha's hand.

"Thanks," she says, giving him a small smile. She gets out the car, the cold air hitting her hard after the comfortable stuffiness of the car, and jogs towards the pay phone, her arms wrapped tightly around her. She drops all of the coins into the slot then picks up, dialling the number she knows by heart. It takes a few moments to connect, and then there are three short rings.

"Good afternoon, how can I help?" The voice at the other end of the phone is superficial, sweet, and could belong to any girl in any call centre in America.

"Director Fury. Now."

"Can I take your reference number please?" Her tone doesn't change, still that same forced cheer, but Natasha can tell her fingers are poised over her keyboard, ready to connect.

"Four six five."

"And your status?"

"Two."

There is a quiet bleep as she's placed on hold, and then the phone rings again, and continues ringing, all the while, her time ticking down.

"Natasha."

She has never felt so relieved in her entire life. She rests her forehead against the phone box and has to fight to keep herself from crying out with joy at the sound of a familiar voice.

"Can you send someone to get me?" she asks, tears prickling in her eyes, her voice croaky.

"Where are you?" Fury doesn't waste any time with questions about her health, nor about the success off the mission. He's probably already seen it on the news, probably swore a few times when he saw grainy footage from a Russian news station of fire fighters trying to douse out the flames.

"Headed for Kaluga. Be there in about an hour and a half."

"Good," Fury says. "Good. Keep your head down. Pull into the last service station before the city, and someone will be there."

Natasha nods, one tremulous hand held against her forehead. "Yeah," she says. "Okay."

"You all right?" Fury asks, his voice soft now.

"Been better," she admits. "Definitely been better." She lets out a sigh and tries to still the shaking in her hands. She doesn't know what's come over her. Maybe it's just the sound of Fury's voice, just that little bit of home, or maybe it's because she really has made it over the last hurdle. It feels as though New York is within touching distance, and Asgard and Loki aren't much further on from that. She sinks her teeth into her lower lip, trying to regain some control of her emotions, but it's no use. She feels fragile, volatile, and needs to swallow it all down before she gets back into the car.

"Anything you need - "

"I'll be fine," Natasha says, cutting him off before he can start being too decent. Somehow, generous offers of help always seem to make her feel worse. "Although I'm gonna wanna go to Asgard pretty soon after I get back so…make the debrief quick."

"I figured that'd be the case," Fury replies, and she can hear the smile in his voice. "There's an agent already on his way to you, he'll probably beat you there. Take care, and anything else, you just call, all right?"

"Yeah," Natasha says. "Thanks."

Before Fury can reply, there is a clatter of coins and the line goes dead. Natasha places the phone back on the receiver, then presses her hands flat against her face, taking a couple of deep breaths before she turns and heads back to the car. When she returns, Daniil is leaning forward, fiddling with the radio, searching through the static until, at last, when they're halfway down the slip road, he manages to find a station playing some generic pop.

"Okay?" he asks.

Natasha nods, and he doesn't ask any more questions. She feels like every set of streetlights she passes, every car she overtakes, and every sign they speed past is another mark checked off on her road back to Loki. At one point she's doing far more than the speed limit, the steering wheel shuddering slightly under her grip, and so she eases off. After half an hour, Daniil has fallen asleep and is snoring gently, his breath misting the glass of his window. She reaches out and turns down the radio, until the cheerful tunes start to blend in with the engine noise. After another half an hour, she's engaged autopilot, and has somehow managed to concentrate solely on the road, all thoughts of Loki pushed to the very back of her mind. She can feel herself tiring, but that only makes her increase her pressure on the accelerator, wanting to get the journey (or this leg of it at least) over and done with sooner, rather than later.

The signs for Kaluga don't come soon enough, but when she sees the large arrow pointing towards the services, she pulls off the main highway, into a darkened car park and waits. After a couple of minutes, she sees a man in a familiar style of tailored suit approach, and, upon him reaching the car, Natasha rolls down the window.

"Four six five?" he asks.

"Yeah," Natasha says.

"What's going on?"

Natasha turns to see Daniil, now awake and blinking blearily as he stifles a yawn.

"Can you get him a ride home?" she asks the agent. "This car's kinda…stolen. And also give him something for his troubles? He's been good to me."

The agent nods, then says to Daniil, "Stay in the car. Someone will be along for you soon."

"Irina - "

"Don't worry," she says. "It's perfectly safe, all right? Nothing's gonna happen. And if anybody asks, you came home tonight and went to bed, okay?"

Daniil sighs and looks down at the floor, then runs a hand through his hair. He's tired, and confused, and this, on top of everything else only makes Natasha feel worse.

"But what about you?" he says. "Where are you going?"

Natasha pauses, and a smile spreads slowly across her lips, her heart lifting just a little under the weight of everything she's been through today.

"I'm going home."

* * *

Clint's waiting for her in arrivals, and as she nears him, he opens his arms. She throws herself into them, clinging onto him tightly, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to erase everything from the past day from her mind. No matter how hard she tries, it swirls around in her brain, unrelenting.

"Hey," Clint says softly. "Come on, it's okay, you're home."

Natasha doesn't say anything, but simply holds him tighter, glad of the familiarity, the sense of security, and the touch of another human being who doesn't want to kill her.

"Nat?" he asks, uncertain. "Nat?"

She pulls away, knowing that if she doesn't now, then she never will. She takes a deep breath, then asks quietly, "Where's the car?"

"This way," Clint says, glancing her up and down uncertainly, before settling his arm around her shoulders and guiding her towards the exit. Natasha slips into the back seat of the black saloon, and Clint crosses around to the other side while she fastens her seatbelt. The world is so busy here, people everywhere, everything moving fast, colours bright and shiny. Everything feels new, and sleek, and as they pull away, Natasha tries to readjust herself to American life. It doesn't work, however. Her life from yesterday and her life today feel like they're doing battle, wrestling with each other to gain the upper hand, but neither coming out on top.

"You wanna talk about it?" Clint asks gently.

Natasha shakes her head, but Clint reaches forward and pulls down the privacy glass, so the driver has no chance of hearing their conversation.

"If you _need_ to talk about it, talk about it. Fuck the clearance levels, I _know_ what happened last night."

"Do the others?" Natasha asks.

"Probably, if they've watched the news. They can put two and two together and get four _sometimes_, you know_." _

Natasha doesn't smile, but instead sighs heavily, resting her head against the glass.

"Nat," Clint says, his tone more serious now. "Whatever you need, just let me know, all right? If you wanna talk about it, maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow, but at some point, I'm here, okay? I'm _always_ here."

Natasha nods and closes her eyes, pulling her knees up to her chest and burying her face in them. She wants to disappear, doesn't want to talk about anything. Talking makes it real, talking means admitting the full extent of what she did, out loud, to another human being. Talking means showing the world what a monster you really are.

"Is there _anything_ you want right now?" Clint asks, resting a comforting hand on her back.

Natasha looks up and rests her chin on her knees, her seatbelt cutting into her neck uncomfortably. "I just wanna go to Asgard."

"Nat, _no_, you've earned a break, you don't have to go back and babysit that - "

"I want a break in Asgard. I want to stay there for a while…I need…" she trails off, not wanting to say it, not out loud and certainly not to Clint.

"Need what?" he presses. "What, Nat? Whatever it is, we can get it for you."

"I need _Loki_." The words escape her before she can stop them, and she immediately regrets opening her mouth.

There's an uncomfortable silence, and she can tell Clint is trying to find an answer that isn't simply _what the fuck?_ He opens his mouth several times before he eventually finds the right words, and when they come, they're only slightly toned down from the anticipated question.

"What are you _talking_ about?"

"I need Loki," she says again, resting her forehead against her knees and closing her eyes. "I just do. He's…I'll feel better."

"What's he done to - "

"_Nothing_," Natasha says sharply, looking up and scowling at him. "He hasn't done _anything_ to me. I've just spent the last month in various fucking asylums, and you're asking what _he's_ done to me?"

Clint holds up his hands defensively and leans back, closer to the window. "Nat - "

"_Don't_," she says, hiding her face again. "Just _don't._ I _know_ it's fucked up, all right? But…you don't know him like I do."

"Nat, he's a _liar_. A _manipulator_. A _murderer_."

"And so am I," she replies coolly. "Maybe we're both so fucked up that it makes us perfect for each other. Or a fucking train wreck in the making but I don't _care_, because right now, I need him."

"So are you two…together? Is that why you've been spending so much time on Asgard?"

Natasha lets her feet fall back to the floor of the car, sighing heavily and slumping back in her seat. "I don't know."

"What d'you mean you don't know?"

Natasha sighs again, and her skin feels prickly with embarrassment. She _hates_ talking about feelings, hates showing them, and worse than that, she hates talking about how much she's grown to care for the guy who tried to kill the pair of them in the summer. Part of her wonders if Clint's considering asking the driver to turn the car around so he can send her straight back to the asylum.

"We didn't talk much before I left…" she mumbles. "We kinda left things…complicated."

Clint scrunches his nose. "You slept with him, didn't you?"

Natasha gives him a withering look, although privately, she's relieved that his response is as mild as that. "I've had a lot of time to think while I've been away…and I'm guessing he probably has too…"

"Look, Nat, I know you've spent a lot of time with him, but this _is_ the guy who tried to take over the world, okay? Just reminding you of that one. I don't care what excuses he comes up with, how many people may or may not have been influencing his decisions, he still did what he did."

"Things snowballed," she says lamely, and Clint lets out a loud, sarcastic bark of laughter.

"You don't say?"

"I don't expect you to understand," she mutters, and Clint's feigned amusement disappears. "But he's not…he's fucked up, just how I was…just how I _am_."

"You're not fucked up," Clint tells her. "You're not."

"Wanna bet?"

Clint sighs and rests his hands on his knees, skewing his lips from side to side. He glances at her every so often, before returning his gaze to the cars whooshing past them on the freeway.

"Don't tell anyone. Please."

He looks at her, and for a moment, she thinks he's already planned the conversation with Fury, is probably going to head straight to his office as soon as he gets the chance, because he's _worried_ about her, or he's _concerned_ that Loki's been _manipulating_ her, or that they need to talk to _Thor_, or ban her from going to Asgard altogether and it's for her own _good_.

"Of course I"m not gonna tell anyone," he says exasperatedly. "But are you _sure_ about this? _Really_ sure?"

"Yeah," Natasha replies. "I am."

* * *

When she lands in Asgard, tired, broken, she can't help but feel like she's home. The closer she gets to Loki, the more she finds her hands trembling intermittently, whether due to anticipation, exhaustion, or the rush of emotions she's experienced in the last day and a half, she doesn't know. What she _does_ know is that she needs him, needs him so much that she's not even bitter about admitting that fact to herself. She just wants him to hold her close so she can bury her face in his chest, the sound of his steady heartbeat reminding her that he's there, and he's not going anywhere. She's barely regained her balance when she's wrapped in a bone crushing hug, the zip on her jacket scratching against Thor's thick, heavy chest plate.

"I'm so relieved," Thor breathes. "Heimdall has been keeping me updated. I thought at one point you might never return to us." He releases her and Natasha stumbles back a few paces, Thor reaching out to grab her.

"I'm fine," she says, forcing a smile. "I mean…I will be."

"I am certain of it," Thor says firmly. "I knew you were courageous but, Natasha…"

"Don't," she says, waving a hand to stop him in his tracks. She doesn't want to hear about what a hero she is. She's _not_ a hero, far from it. It's why Fury couldn't send in Steve, or Tony. Heroes don't burn buildings to the ground. Heroes don't take hundreds of innocent lives. No matter how much good she does from now on, no matter how many lives she will potentially save, she will never be able to wipe out the red that is those trapped patients, who were either gassed to death or burned at the heart of the explosion. She will never be able to wipe out the blots that are Isabella and Anastasia.

The misery rises within her, like a great black beast, working its way up from the bottom of her stomach and engulfing her in darkness. She doesn't deserve to be here, doesn't deserve to come home to fine food and wine and comfort and _Loki_. Not after what she's done, not now that all those people, no matter how damaged, will never get to go home ever again.

If she'd stopped to think about her actions, if she'd paused, just for one moment, to not take the assignment brief quite so literally, she might have been able to save them. No one knows whether they'd have been able to come up with a countering drug, something to return them back to their old selves so they could then be transferred to _proper_ places of care, getting help from people who actually _want_ to make them better. No chance of that now though. Not after Natasha turned on all those gas taps and closed the door on them.

"Natasha."

She looks up at the sound of her name, and realises that there are tears prickling in her eyes. She wipes at them roughly with the back of her hand, not wanting to break, not until she's alone with Loki. He won't judge her for it, she knows, and if she's going to lose her normally vice-like grip on her emotions, she'd much rather do it in the comfort of his arms.

"Your friends were unconscious by the time the explosion happened. They did not suffer." Heimdall fixes her with a knowing stare which seems to pierce her very soul. His gentle voice is soothing, even if his words, although well-intended, do not make the situation any better at all.

"Thanks," she says softly.

Thor places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes gently. The gesture, although simple, somehow grounds her to the fact that she's back, she's right where she longed to be for all those weeks, and Loki is just a walk along the rainbow bridge away. She scratches at her scars absentmindedly, and Thor frowns, looking as though he's about to say something, but then thinks better of it.

"What?"

Thor shakes his head, and when Natasha stops scratching, his frown lessens, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

"Does he know? About all of this?"

Thor shakes his head. "I told him you were alive when I last saw him, but that was - " He falters and takes a deep breath. Natasha's heart grows cold in her chest, and she feels a tremor in her legs.

"Tell me," she breathes. "_Tell me_."

Thor looks away from her, his eyes overbright, jaw set as he breathes in heavily through his nose, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Natasha looks at Heimdall, who is concentrating on the floor, leaning against the hilt of his sword. She turns back to Thor, who either isn't planning on telling her what's wrong, or simply can't find the words. "_Thor_."

"Loki's back in the dungeons," he says quickly.

Natasha takes a moment to process the words, but when they sink in, she feels as though the floor has been ripped from beneath her feet. She shakes her head, bringing a shaking hand up to cover her mouth. Thor steps forward, but Natasha backs away from him, refusing to believe him. Loki _can't_ be back in his cell, he _can't_ be. Not when she needs him so much. He wouldn't _do this_ to her, she knows he wouldn't.

"Natasha - "

"_No_."

"Natasha, he _killed a girl_." Thor's voice cracks on the last three words, and tears begin to spill down Natasha's cheeks, hot and unwelcome.

"_No_."

"He _did_. I wish it weren't true but - "

"He wouldn't - he _can't have_."

"Natasha, they found her in his room," Thor says heavily, a single tear trickling down his face. "We…we don't really know what happened. We think he must have lost his mind, we think…"

"You think _what_?" Natasha demands harshly. "What do you _think_?"

"We think his time without you affected his mind. We think…"

"You think he went _crazy_ just because I was gone for a couple of weeks? You think he went on a murderous rampage because I wasn't here keeping an eye on him?" She refuses to believe it, any of it, and she will not have it that Loki is crazy. In New York, she would have agreed, but not now, not after everything. Not after that last night that they spent together.

"The girl had _red hair_, Natasha!" Thor yells over her. "Just like _yours_."

"_So_? Tonnes of people have red hair! What's that got to do with me?"

"Natasha," Thor says softly, completely broken now. "She had _long _red hair. Until he cut it."

Natasha stops, her breath hitching in her throat. "He cut it?"

Thor nods, blinking rapidly, then takes a step forward. "To about…this length." He marks a spot just below her shoulder, right where her own hair ends. "When I arrived, I thought it was you…"

Natasha closes her eyes, pressing the heels of her palms into her eye sockets as she tries and makes sense of the world. This is all far too much to handle, especially after her assignment. All she'd wanted was to come home to him, that's all she'd asked for. But of course, she was right. She _doesn't_ deserve to be happy, and the world is seeing to it that she never will be.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **Annnnnnd I'm alive. And I've got a broken breast bone. I'm so badass I started writing this about six hours after I came round in intensive care. It's just taken a while because quite frankly, I feel awful. So don't expect the next chapter to be up for a while because writing just ain't happening at the moment I'm afraid. Anyway, thanks for all your well wishes and reviews, hope you like this chapter.

* * *

**Turn**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Thor has to jog to keep up with her. She strides down the marble hallways, shoving the heavy wooden doors open so hard that they crash into the adjacent walls, rebounding so quickly that Thor has to throw out a hand to catch them, lest they hit him in the face. She takes the stairs to the dungeons two at a time, and pulls the chains roughly away from the door handles, dropping them to the floor with a clang before she kicks the door open and storms inside.

"Natasha, wait - "

She doesn't listen, and at the sight of her, Loki, bedraggled and tired, sits up straight his mouth open as though to garble some excuse, but Natasha doesn't wait around to listen to it.

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?" she demands heading straight for the glass. She doesn't know what she's going to do when she reaches him; she's torn between punching him in the face, wringing his neck and -

She doesn't get to consider the third outcome. She's blinded by pain, her nose crunching against something solid, the warm flow of blood almost instant, and she topples over backwards. She throws out an arm to break her fall, but a pair of thick, strong arms catch her.

"You can't go in," Thor says. "For your own safety."

Natasha pulls away from him and pinches the bridge of her nose to try and stop the blood flow. "My safety, or his?" she demands.

"Natasha I - " Loki begins, his hands pressed against the glass, his face pale, eyes desperate and pleading.

"I _know_ you didn't do it," she says obviously, wiping at the blood on her face with the cuff of her jacket.

"What?"

Both Thor and Loki speak at the same time, and she doesn't know who she's more pissed off with - Thor for believing that Loki _would_ kill a girl, and not only that, kill a girl who resembled her because he'd _supposedly_ lost his mind, or Loki, for assuming she has so little faith in him.

"Killing girls _isn't _your style," Natasha says, turning to Loki. She presses her hand against the glass, opposite his, and he rests his forehead against the other side, looking down at her, his eyes clouded with what she thinks might be relief. He lets out a soft sigh, breath fogging the glass, and Natasha closes her eyes.

"Natasha," Thor says gently. "They found the girl in his - "

"_Seriously_?" Natasha says, turning away from the glass. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Natasha, he was knelt by the body when I - "

"In all the time you've known him, when the hell has he ever chosen girls as his target? Taking over the world? Yeah, okay, I'd believe that. But killing a girl just for the sake of it? He's got more class than _that_."

Thor falls silent at this, and Natasha is sure he still believes Loki is responsible. She doesn't know any of the details yet, but she knows, in her heart of hearts, she knew when she was storming along the bifrost, that there was no way in hell he would have betrayed her like this. Not over something so _silly_. He hasn't even uttered a word about it, but she knows, from the expression on his face that he's innocent this time. She knows how murder, even in a moment of madness, rests heavy on the heart, and is in turn projected onto the face, more specifically the eyes.

"I need you to tell me everything," Natasha sighs, returning her gaze to Loki. He nods, and then glances up at Thor, hovering a few feet behind her.

"Can you give us a minute?" Natasha asks.

"I'm not supposed to - "

"Oh come on," Natasha says. "Clearly I can't get in," she gestures to her nose, "and he can't get out."

This seems to be enough to convince Thor, and he exits the dungeon, closing the door behind him. She hears him walk to the end of the corridor, but he doesn't climb the stairs. Natasha assumes he's sat down at the foot of them, not wanting to be too far away should any unlikely trouble break out.

"Are you all right?" Loki asks softly.

She blinks and looks up at him, chewing on the inside of her lower lip. She's not okay. In fact she's very very very far from okay, but it seems as though her problems pale into insignificance when compared to Loki's.

"Natasha?"

She closes her eyes, trying to keep the prickling around her lower lids at bay. "I just really needed to come back here and for everything to be fine. I just needed…"

"What?" he asks gently.

"You," she admits, taking a step back from the glass, and dabbing at her bloody nose with her cuff.

He presses his fingers harder against the glass, the tips turning white with the pressure, and Natasha wishes more than anything that she could meet that touch without the thick layer of glass in between. After all her sleepless nights, trying to recall what colour his eyes were, how his arms felt around her, and the smell of his skin, to come back and be so close, and yet so far, to have overcome all the obstacles to only fall at the last hurdle is the biggest punch in the gut she has ever experienced. She feels like she's on the verge of tears and it's stupid, because she _doesn't_ cry. It's not in her nature. The only time she cries is when she's on an assignment, her own life isn't nearly traumatic enough to warrant crying. Except for now, of course. Perhaps this is what stress feels like. Actual stress, not the kind of stress she's used to involving guns and explosions and breaking into places undetected, but the sort of stress that, should Fury find out about it, will leave her in counselling for six months with a SHIELD therapist, much like poor Bocharov.

"What happened to you?"

"Stuff," she replies, blinking rapidly. "But it doesn't matter, tell me what happened."

Loki fixes her with a piercing gaze before he apparently decides it's no use arguing with her, and sits down on the floor, his legs crossed, fingertips still clinging to the glass. Natasha sits down too, her hands resting on her knees, index finger picking at the seam of her jeans.

"I went to bed," he says with a shrug. "And when I woke up, I went into the main quarters and…" he trails off and looks down at the floor, running a hand through his hair. "I didn't do it, I swear. I know Thor thinks I did and I _know_ how it looks, but I didn't - "

"I know," Natasha murmurs. "I know…"

"You knew before you even got here though," Loki says. "And my family don't believe me, and yet you didn't even _need_ to hear my side, you just _knew_."

"Think how many times you've betrayed them in the past though," Natasha sighs. "This is just the latest in a long line to them. They half expected it, I think."

"And you didn't expect it?"

Natasha shakes her head and reaches up to twirl a lock of hair around her index finger. The motion pulls on her jacket sleeve, and she sees Loki's eyebrows twitch into a frown.

"What's that?" he asks, gesturing to her wrists.

Natasha looks down and sees the thin pink scars marring her wrists. She drops her hand into her lap and pulls her sleeve down, covering the marks.

"Answer the question," he says, his voice growing stronger, his frown more severe.

"It happened on the assignment," she says quietly, ensuring both of her sleeves are pulled right down over her wrists. "It's healed now though, it's no big deal."

"What happened to you?" he asks, his voice gentle once more. He presses his forehead against the glass, his eyes seeking hers, but she won't meet his gaze. "You're so different to before."

She picks at the seam of her jeans and chews on her lip, trying to think of a way to dodge the question. She can't though, and so she settles for staring at the floor, trying to ignore the prickling of her skin under Loki's intense stare.

"Was it worth it?"

"_Don't_."

"Don't wh- "

"Just _don't_," Natasha says, resting her head in her hands and pressing the heels of her palms against her eye sockets until she sees nothing but blackness, in place of the inside of the lab. Isabella and Anastasia's faces seem like they're burned into the inside of her eyelids, staring out at her accusingly in the dark. She doesn't know how she's going to cope, she only knows that she has to, because there are more pressing concerns, like the thick pane of glass separating her from Loki. She can't help herself though. Hot tears leak from the corner of her eyes and she takes in deep breaths, trying to get her body under control but she just _can't_. She doesn't understand how she can have so little say in her body's responses, especially when she's back where she wants to be, back where she's safe, even though it's not perfect, the Loki situation can be _fixed_, she's sure of it.

She just really wishes she could lose herself in him right now.

"Natasha…don't…please don't…"

She ignores him and his broken tone, the crack in his voice, and the instinctual knowledge that he's leant up against the glass in an effort to be as close to her as possible. She tries to think of something ridiculous, something detached, something to break her out of this sudden downwards dip, but she can't. It's all suddenly too much and she doesn't know if she wants to run away or if she wants to stay.

Natasha wipes roughly at her eyes and sniffs, her jaw clenched, gaze avoiding Loki, but when she sees him slumped against the corner watching her glumly, his fingers resting against the glass, she swallows the lump in her throat and shifts closer to him, until her body is next to his feet, her head leant against the glass, their fingers meeting in the middle. There is nothing she wouldn't give to have the glass removed, to have his fingers intertwine with hers so she has something real to hold onto, something to focus on other than the deep dark wounds that her assignment has left her with.

"Everything's going to be all right," he says softly, his eyes fixed on their fingers. "I know it will."

Natasha nods, and this time she manages to blink away the threat of oncoming tears. "Yeah," she breathes. "I know."

She's exhausted, and it's not long before she finds her eyelids drooping, tiredness overcoming her. She dozes off, losing track of the time, but when she hears the dungeon door open, she stirs, just a little, but doesn't open her eyes.

"Leave her here, just for tonight, _please_."

"Loki you know I can't…"

"She needs _rest_."

"And she can rest in your _rooms_."

"Because those have proved to be secure, haven't they?" Loki's voice is bitter, and Natasha hears him huff. She half expects him to get up and start skulking around the perimeter of his cell but he stays put.

"Loki - "

"I didn't kill that girl, Thor. And you know that even if I _could_ get out of here the last thing I'd do is hurt her."

"I can't leave her here, Father - "

"To _hell_ with Father. After everything she's been through…"

"I _know_, Loki, I _know_."

There is a pause, and then: "How much do you know?"

A longer pause this time, as Thor realises he's walked head first into a trap.

"_Thor_."

"Heimdall was watching over her…" Thor sighs. "He saw everything. Loki, she's suffered so much, please don't - "

"_What has she suffered_?" Loki demands, his voice quiet and strained, and Natasha can hear him sit up straighter.

"She'll tell you if she wants to," Thor mumbles sheepishly. "It's not my place to say. Be kind though, Loki. She has missed you greatly."

"_Tell me_," Loki says, his voice reverting to that childish, vulnerable tone that Natasha has only ever heard him use while under Odin's scrutiny.

"You don't want to know," Thor replies. "But she has been more courageous in these past weeks than most are in a lifetime. Do _not_ press her for information. She needs you."

"So let her _stay_," Loki pleads. "Just let her stay and I swear I'll - "

"I'll sleep in the corridor," Thor says, giving in. "And not a _word_ to Father,"

"Like I have anything to say to _him_," Loki sneers.

"Goodnight Loki," Thor sighs, heading for the door.

"Goodnight," Loki replies, and then, after a pause, comes a small, "And thank you," that Natasha probably would have missed had she not been so close to him.

"You're welcome."

Natasha can hear the faint, tired smile stretching his lips. It comes through in his voice, in the way he gently closes the dungeon door, and the footsteps that sound a touch lighter than they were before. After a few moments, she hears Loki settle down, and after a few more moments, she drops off to sleep once again, more at ease than she has been for weeks.

* * *

Breakfast arrives with a clatter, and Natasha starts awake. At first she's disoriented, half expecting to be waking up in a twin bed in a room with pale green walls, and she jumps up, looking around anxiously, trying to figure out exactly where she is and where the nearest exits are.

"Natasha, it's all right."

She looks down to see Loki, who has pushed himself up onto his knees and is watching her closely.

"You're okay," he says. "Everything's okay. It's just breakfast."

She lets out a sigh and lifts a shaky hand to remove her hair clip, her hair falling around her shoulders. She lowers herself back down to the floor, resting the side of her head against the glass and bringing her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, as she waits for her heart rate to return to normal. She can feel Loki watching her, doesn't need to look at him to know that his eyebrows have twitched into a concerned frown, his lips pouting slightly from his position of helplessness behind the glass.

The door opens and Thor pokes his head around the corner. When he sees that the pair of them are awake, he comes into the dungeon, collects the tray from the dumb waiter and approaches.

"Hungry?" he asks Loki. He doesn't wait for an answer, and steps through the glass, Natasha's heart searing with jealousy at his ability to walk straight through. He gives the tray to Loki, who balances it on his knees and pulls a grim expression. Unlike Loki's last stint in the dungeons, there is only a single bowl on the tray, with dollops of a thick greyish porridge dumped in it.

"Thanks," Loki mumbles, pushing the mush around with his spoon. Thor steps out of the cell again, without another word to Loki, then holds out a hand to Natasha.

"Come," he says. "You must be starving. We'll take breakfast and then…" he trails off and glances down at Loki. "Then you can decide what you want to do."

"Breakfast can wait," Natasha says, taking his hand and pulling herself to her feet. "I wanna see the body, I wanna see his rooms, and…at some point, I'm gonna wanna speak to your dad."

Thor raises his eyebrows and turns to Loki again, whose expression matches Thor's exactly. Natasha almost smiles, because no matter how much Loki claims that they _aren't _brothers (which is constantly contradicted by how often Loki addresses Thor as such) there's no denying that some of their mannerisms are transferable between the two.

"You want to speak to my father?" Loki asks, putting his tray to one side. "Are you sure?"

"Everybody's jumped to the conclusion that you killed this girl," Natasha says, ignoring the loud rumble that her stomach emits. She inwardly groans, knowing that Thor will undoubtedly drag her to breakfast before anything else after hearing that, but carries on regardless. "And you know, they found you next to the body in your room, so pretty compelling stuff, but anyone who _knows_ you knows that you're not interested in attacking women, right?" She turns to Thor at this point, because if they're going to go any further, she'll need his full support on this, and more importantly, _Loki_ will need his full support, more now than ever. It's all very well and good Thor trying to save Loki when he's been causing chaos all over the galaxy, but for him to abandon him in prison the one time he's innocent…well, that's not going to help anybody. Besides, she has a feeling that she alone won't be able to convince Odin, and probably won't be given the time of day by him.

"I want to believe he's innocent," Thor sighs.

"But?"

"No one could have gotten into that room. The chains were _on_."

"And Loki somehow managed to get _out_ of that room? Somehow found a girl? Killed her? Brought her back to his place and gave her a haircut? Yeah right."

"None of it makes _sense_."

"But that doesn't mean you can just place the blame on _him_," Natasha says exasperatedly. She looks down at Loki, who swallows (with difficulty) a mouthful of his porridge and pulls a face. "We can't leave him like this."

Thor sighs, his fist clenching and unclenching at his side. "Breakfast first," he says. "And then the girl. The funeral's tonight."

"Okay," Natasha says, giving him a firm nod. She turns back to Loki, his spoon halfway to his mouth, its contents looking entirely unappealing. She grimaces in sympathy. "I'm gonna get you out of here soon, okay?"

He smiles wryly, and she's offended, just for a moment, because she thinks that he's dismissing the idea, that he hasn't the faith that she's capable of doing such a thing. After what she's been through in the last month, however, getting Loki out of prison, even if she has to _break him out_, is going to be a piece of cake. Apart from that, she's got far more motivation to get this job done than she ever had for the assignment. She'd dreaded the climax of that even before she landed on Russian soil. This, however, this is going to be fixed, and it's going to be fixed today.

"I'm sure you will," he says, finally giving up on his porridge for good and putting it to one side. "I'm sure you will."

Natasha follows Thor from the dungeon and he places the chains back on the door, double checking that they're secure before he's happy to move on. They climb the stairs in silence and Natasha tries to rub the crick from her neck. Solid glass pillows aren't top on her list of favoured luxuries, but she'll make do, for Loki.

Thor takes her to a small inn, just outside the palace grounds. It's empty at this time in the morning but the woman behind the counter gives Thor a cheerful smile.

"Breakfast for me and my companion?" he asks, raising his hand in greeting.

"Coming up, my liege," the woman says, bustling through the doors that lead to the kitchen out the back.

Thor pulls out a chair at a small, scrubbed table and gestures for Natasha to sit down. She does, and rests her elbows on the table, her hands clasped together, fingers tapping the back of her hand anxiously. Thor takes a seat opposite her and rests his head on the heels of his palms. He looks even more tired than last night, and Natasha wonders how much sleep he really got in the corridor. Hopefully tonight they'll all be back in their own beds for a proper night's rest. Hopefully.

It's not long before a hearty breakfast is placed in front of each of them, along with two large tankards of water. Natasha's hungry, and tries to ignore each pang of guilt that strikes her with every bite as she remembers that horrible gloopy porridge that Loki was lumbered with. Thor, on the other hand, is pushing his food around his plate with his fork, barely touching a morsel. Taking a break to have a sip of water, Natasha watches him curiously over the rim of her tankard.

"What's up?" she asks at last, placing the tankard down. Thor glances up at her, then sighs and sits back in his chair, a troubled expression on his usually cheerful face.

"You are so certain he is innocent," Thor begins, and as Natasha is about to open her mouth to argue, he holds up a hand to stop her in her tracks. "And yet there's no evidence, you didn't even ask him what happened, but you're certain he's innocent…_how_?"

Natasha frowns as she considers her answer. She doesn't know _how_ she knew, all she knows is that she did. Perhaps it had been denial, which had later proved to have been correct, or perhaps she has the measure of Loki well enough to know he's innocent, without stopping to think of all the reasons why it wouldn't have been him, not this time. Now she thinks about it, she realises that she has never been _personally _betrayed by Loki. Thor, on the other hand…well, he's been betrayed more times than he can probably count. He's been stabbed, lied to, attacked by giant robots, among countless other things. She's not surprised that Thor is wavering on the fence, caught between wanting Loki to be innocent and knowing that ninety nine times out of a hundred, he's not.

The Loki that Natasha knows, the one that she has forged a relationship with these past months, is the one that locked his arms around her, that last night before she left for the assignment. He is the one who held her and told her to breathe after Frejir attacked, who gently tended to her wounds without question. He was the one who went out for a walk in the woods with the brother he despised, simply because Natasha _asked_ him to. He's not the one who killed a girl because he was bored, or crazy, or whatever other reason they might have chalked it up to. That's just not _him_. Maybe it would have been last summer, but not now.

"I just know he wouldn't," she says at last, unable to find the words to communicate her feelings any better than that. She doesn't want to start telling Thor about the ins and outs of her relationship with Loki, because apart from the fact that she doesn't even really know where the both of them stand, it would also feel like a betrayal to Loki, letting his detested brother have all the details on the one thing he has to call his own. She's quite sure that Jane would never spill all the beans about Thor to Loki (not that she can imagine any such scenario where either party would be inclined to do such a thing) so she won't be the one to reveal anything of Loki to Thor that he doesn't already know.

"I hope you're right," Thor sighs, then pushes his plate away. "Are you done? The girl's body is in the lower halls of the palace."

Natasha nods and Thor stands, leading the way out of the inn, sending a wave of thanks in the direction of the barmaid. They head back into the palace grounds, eyes lingering on them as Natasha marches alongside Thor, matching his long strides with smaller, quicker ones of her own.

"Does everybody think Loki did it?" Natasha asks quietly as they descend a set of stairs. Thor casts a glances over his shoulder to ensure they're alone before he answers.

"We tried to keep it quiet," Thor murmurs, "So of course the entire realm knows. The girl's parents were…"

"Yeah," Natasha says softly. "Yeah I can imagine."

They continue down a long, torch lit corridor until the very end, where Thor pushes open a heavy door with creaking hinges. Natasha follows him into the chamber beyond, where there are a group of women, all in long, flowing, deep blue gowns. Around the chamber, there are flowers in vases, some simple and similar to those Natasha might see on Earth, others far more exotic and beautiful, with long, twisting stems, and soft, delicate petals. Despite the strong floral aroma, Natasha can still detect the stench of death in the air.

"My companion and I would like a moment with Helma, if possible." Thor's voice is clear in the chamber, but somehow soft and unimposing.

"We are about to prepare her for the ceremony this evening my liege, there is much work to do," one of the women answers, her head bowed in deference, hands clasped in front of her.

"We only need a moment, and we will be sure not to delay you unnecessarily. It is most important."

The woman bites her lip as she considers Thor's request, then eventually nods, gesturing to a room beyond the chamber.

"Thank you," Thor says, "We won't be long."

Natasha keeps her gaze on the door ahead, not wanting to make eye contact with any of the women in the room. She doesn't know quite how to handle this one, what mask she ought to be sporting. She's on a personal mission, so she's mostly been parading around in her default _no fucks given_ mask, and the same still applies. However tragic the murder of this girl is, Natasha can't change anything for her, all she can do is ensure that Loki doesn't get punished for a crime he didn't commit. She knows she ought to have some sympathy, with a tinge of sadness and regret thrown in, but the fact that it would be disingenuous makes it seem somehow worse than a blatant lack of emotion.

The room is dimly lit, and Helma's pale body lays motionless on a marble table. She looks peaceful, and were it not for the smell, Natasha would think she were sleeping. Her hair is vibrantly red, and chopped short with rough, uneven strokes. The rest of her hair lays on a table on the far side of the room, held together with a long stream of ribbon, criss-crossing along the length of it. Natasha approaches the body cautiously, then, when she reaches the edge of the table, she casts her eyes down the girl's lifeless form.

"She's so young," Natasha sighs, taking in the smooth, paper white skin, her slender, delicate fingers, and the faded, pinprick sized freckles scattered across her nose.

"I know," Thor croaks. "I know."

Natasha's attention is drawn to the neck, marred with dark purple bruises which stick out like a sore thumb against her colourless skin. The bruises are large, but Natasha can clearly detect the separate fingerprints of the culprit. The thumbprint is much bigger than Natasha would expect, and she leans closer, frowning.

"The guy who did this hand huge hands," Natasha says. She pulls away from the body and grabs Thor's own hand, holding it up in front of her so she can compare sizes. Even Thor, for all his mass, wouldn't have left such sizeable prints. It would have to be someone with fatter, hammier fists. Someone with both strength _and_ mass.

"Not Loki?" He sounds cautiously optimistic.

"No, Loki's hands don't leave bruises like that…" she mumbles, brushing a lock of hair away from Helma's neck so she can better see her injuries.

"How would you know what kind of bruises Loki's hands leave?" Thor asks darkly, turning his attention away from Helma and letting it rest solely on Natasha. "Has he hurt you?"

"No," Natasha replies shortly, not even bothering to face him. He should know that that's a ridiculous question. Had Loki ever hurt her, she certainly wouldn't be trying to prove his innocence now. She'd be leaving him to rot. That's just how she is.

"Then how - "

"Not all bruises are inflicted maliciously," she says, cutting him off. She hopes that that's enough to get the message across, but apparently not, because Thor pursues his line of questioning.

"Well if not maliciously then how?" he asks, his tone quizzical.

Natasha sighs and gives him an exasperated look.

"What?"

"It was…" she rotates her hand in front of her as she tries to come up with an appropriate word. "_Passion_."

"What, one of your card games got a little heated and he took it out on you?" Thor asks skeptically.

"Are you _serious_?" she sighs. "_Really_?" She shakes her head and turns back to Helma's body, picking up one of her delicate hands and frowning at the fingertips. There's a faint trace of red under her nails that suggests she may have put up a fight, no matter how fruitless. For the first time, Natasha feels a pang of empathy for the girl, and is struck by a vision of her scrabbling against her attacker, tears in her eyes as the pressure on her windpipe increases past the point of pain or recognition.

"I don't know what you - "

"Loki and I…" Natasha sighs, her stomach churning with embarrassment as she places Helma's hand back on the table. It's hardly the time or the place to have this conversation with him, and she doesn't want to have it at all. In fact, it is the _last_ conversation she wants to have with him, ever. "We uh…we got close one night. Very close."

A look of sudden comprehension mingled with a dash of horror dawns on Thor's face. Natasha turns back to Helma, not wanting to deal with the fall out of this latest revelation. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and takes a quick couple of photos, then checks that the bruises are crystal clear on the images before shoving her phone back into her jeans.

"_When_?" Thor asks, his face merging into one of disgust.

"We're done here," Natasha says, turning towards the door. "And you're not to to tell him you know, all right?"

"But - "

"All _right_?" Natasha repeats, whirling around to face him and staring him down.

"Of course," Thor says after a moment's hesitation. "You have my word but _Natasha - _"

"But _nothing_," she replies. "End of discussion."

Thor falls silent and follows her from the chamber. On their way out, they both send respectful nods towards the women, who are collecting various bottles, flowers and lengths of material. She doesn't have time to be curious about the process of an Asgardian funeral, because she needs to go and inspect Loki's rooms. She doubts the girl was even killed there, but there must be some evidence there, some trace of whoever dumped the body.

"Have his quarters been cleaned since she was found?" Natasha asks.

Thor shakes his head. "No one is allowed into that area of the palace. Except me…of course."

"Who's stopping them?"

"Guards."

"And who's stopping the guards?"

Thor pauses, casting a sidelong glance at her. "I know what you're thinking."

"Good, so we've both come to the same conclusion."

"Do not allow yourself to be blinded by emotions, Natasha. Past grievances are - "

"I'll prove it," Natasha says firmly, running her hand lightly along the bannister as they climb the stairs.

"How?"

Natasha shrugs. "I'll think of something."

"Yes," Thor sighs. "That's what worries me."

Natasha smirks, mostly due to the fact that there is something in Thor's tone that reminds her of Clint, a wariness of her that he's worn quite openly on his sleeve since Budapest. They continue onwards, until Natasha finds herself in familiar locations once more, and she instinctively takes the turnings before Thor even gestures the direction, her memory serving her well. Eventually, they reach a large set of double doors, with half a dozen guards standing to attention outside of it.

"Hand picked by me," Thor says to Natasha. "Fine men, every one of them."

"I'm sure," Natasha says, stepping forwards, but she finds her path blocked by crossed spears.

"She can pass," Thor tells them, his voice loud and clear. "She is with me."

The spears are drawn back, and the door is pushed open for her. Natasha quickly takes in the faces of the men, committing each one to memory, before she steps into the corridor beyond, Thor following in her wake.

"The chains were off the door," Thor says as they near Loki's quarters. "They were on the floor."

"So someone came in from the _outside_, while Loki was _inside_."

"Well the girl had to come from somewhere…"

Natasha shakes her head. "The girl was already dead, Loki would have heard her being strangled, he would have woken up."

Thor remains quiet and Natasha knows it's because he's still not entirely convinced of Loki's innocence. She's not going to argue about it now though. Instead, she's going to prove it to him, and the rest of Asgard, that despite having sunk to various depths of sin, Loki hasn't sunk _that far_ yet.

"Who put the chains on?"

"I did. We'd been into the woods that day…he tried to teach me to skim again but…" Thor takes a deep breath then exhales, his jaw set, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Natasha tries to put the information from her mind for now. He had been doing exactly as she'd asked, making the effort with Thor, going outside, indulging Thor's attempts at rebuilding the charred bridges between them, and then, mere days before her return, this happens. If only she'd been sooner, if only she'd been transferred in Isabella and Anastasia's place, then not only would their lives have been saved, but so would Helma's, and Loki wouldn't be back in the dungeons again. If only she hadn't played it so god damn _safe_.

Natasha picks up the chains, and they're just as she remembers them; heavy iron links, thick shiny padlock looped through one end. She unhooks it and examines it. Surely it must be the padlock. The chains are undamaged, but if Thor didn't secure them properly, if he didn't pay as much attention because Loki was being _so_ well behaved…but no one could guarantee that. No one could plan a murder, and the framing of that murder based on a mistake that Thor might possibly make based unconsciously on sentiment.

"When you went out to the woods, where did you leave the chains?" Natasha asks.

Thor frowns. "I normally hang them on the door handle. Why?"

"Did you go out often? Every day?"

"Most days," Thor says. "I could tell he wasn't enjoying it but he still came anyway. I suggested other ways of passing the time but I think he preferred the woods. The lesser of many evils, perhaps."

Natasha doesn't reply, and instead clicks the padlock shut. The mechanism isn't as smooth as she would expect, and she narrows her eyes, holding the padlock up to the light and searching for any discernible differences. She doesn't have much to go on, seeing as she never paid the lock too much attention before, but when, after a minute, the lock pops open, she turns to Thor, her eyebrow raised, his jaw slack.

"How?"

"I think there's something in it," Natasha says as she shakes the lock upside down, trying to dislodge whatever it was that caught the shackle when she closed it minutes ago. When she has no luck, she scowls, and squats down, resting on her haunches, then bangs the lock against the floor, the loud, shrill clinks echoing down the corridor. Thor watches her closely, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown, but when a small, hollow cylinder pops out of the lock on her seventh whack, the frown melts away.

Natasha picks it up and studies it in the torchlight. It seems to be a false interior for the lock, designed to release the shackle after a set amount of time. There is a small, tightly coiled spring at the bottom of the cylinder, and Natasha wonders who else would have been involved with this plan. She's not sure the murderer would have had the measure of ingenuity or skill required for concocting this particular part of the plan.

"Did you want to see the room?" Thor asks.

Natasha nods and stands, slipping the cylinder into her pocket for safekeeping. Thor pushes open the door and she follows him inside, but as she expects, there is no sign of a struggle, no indication that the girl ever made it here alive.

"She was found here," Thor says, gesturing to a patch of floor that still has a few long red hairs scattered on it. "And Loki was kneeling next to her."

"I imagine he was trying to help her," Natasha says softly, remembering the speed with which he dealt out orders to Thor when it was Natasha who needed care. "But he was too late."

She rotates on the spot, chewing on her lower lip. She could always dust for fingerprints, maybe head back to Earth and commandeer Bruce's services for an afternoon, though he might be understandably averse to aiding Loki in any way. But even then, all the killer would have had to do was open the door and bring the body in. The number of fingerprints on that one door handle could be in the dozens, and what would it prove? Thor may have already rubbed away any partial prints they might have had.

"What are you looking for?" Thor asks quietly. He's hovering by the door, his expression solemn and Natasha thinks it's probably best that they get the hell out of here. There's nothing to be gleaned from this room, and Thor can't seem to drag his eyes away from the spot where Helma once laid.

"Let's go," she says, heading for the door and taking him by the arm, leading him gently from the room.

"You wanted to speak with my father?" Thor asks as they head away from Loki's quarters.

Natasha shakes her head. "Not yet, need more evidence."

"And how are you going to get that?" Thor asks.

"Tonight," Natasha replies simply. "We're going for a drink."

* * *

The inn is busy and noisy. Patrons are squashed together at the bar, laughing and joking, but when Thor and Fandral approach, they part ways, allowing them through.

"He speaks very highly of you," Sif says, her eyes fixed on the bar, just as Natasha's had been a moment ago. "He says you too are a warrior."

"I have my moments," Natasha says with a shrug. She scans the tables, and her eyes land on her target, seated in the corner with a group of burly men, all red faced and probably half a dozen tankards deep already.

"And Loki cares for you, that's certainly…interesting."

"Yeah," Natasha says, only half listening. "Who'dda seen that coming?"

Sif smiles, but after a moment her expression falters. "He was always so…_annoying_ when we were children. Always tagging along with Thor, even though he was too small. He'd cry when we left him behind…"

"Maybe you could have just…_not_ left him behind," Natasha suggests, her eyes not leaving the corner of the room. She's still not entirely sure what she's going to do, and she hopes that inspiration will strike her some time between now and the time at which she decides to take action.

"We were _children_," Sif sighs. "And we were selfish. Incredibly selfish. I sometimes wonder if we'd been kinder…"

Natasha shrugs. "Past is what it is," she says. "And I'm not sure you can really trace an attempted invasion of Earth right back to a couple of tearful days indoors while you guys went off and did your _warrior_ thing."

"Maybe not," Sif replies softly. "Maybe not."

"D'you think he killed that girl?" Natasha asks abruptly, changing the subject. She's curious as to what Sif thinks, Sif who has known Loki as long as Thor, and yet isn't so closely bound to him by loyalty or family ties.

"Thor tells me you don't think he did."

"But what do _you_ think? You've known him his whole life, right?"

Sif frowns and leans back in her chair, folding her arms across her stomach. She ponders her answer for a moment, then says, "It doesn't make sense, but I gave up trying to make sense of Loki a long time ago."

"Yeah, I don't think you're the only one," Natasha replies.

Thor returns with Fandral, and they set four tankards on the table, Sif pulling her one towards her. Natasha ignores the scraping of chair legs and flurry of movement as Thor and Fandral sit down, and tilts her head to get an unimpaired view of the corner. The group of men are chortling heartily, tossing empty tankards over their shoulders and not giving a damn where they land.

"So my dear," Fandral says in his sharp, clipped voice. "Thor tells me you have a plan to free his beloved brother?"

"It's something of a plan," Natasha replies, her hand finding the handle of her tankard. She lifts it to her lips and takes a sip, but when the alcohol burns her throat she decides that perhaps she ought to leave the rest of it until she's achieved what she came here to do.

"She's being very secretive about it," Thor says quietly to Fandral.

"Because you'll probably try to stop me," Natasha says.

"Then - "

"Don't get involved. If you get involved, you'll ruin it." She sees Fandral smirk from the corner of her eye and glance at Thor.

"Well you heard the lady, Thor, don't get involved, leave it all to her."

"I will leave it all to her providing that Asgard will still be standing at the end of it," Thor says, turning to Natasha and quirking an eyebrow. Apparently he thinks her plans are going to involve untold destruction, but she knows what she wants and she's pretty sure she knows how to get it. Untold destruction will be a very last resort, and she's not really sure she'd be able to manage that on Asgard, despite her track record on Earth. Perhaps Loki might have a few ideas about engineering a destructive escape plan however, so maybe it's not out of the question.

"Don't get involved," Natasha says, standing suddenly, her eyes fixed on the corner where her target resides. "Swear to me."

Thor lets out a sigh, his hands clasping his tankard, and Natasha breaks her gaze in order to make eye contact with him.

"I swear," he says gruffly. "I'll stay out of it."

This is all Natasha needs, and she moves quickly through the tables, ducking as a tankard comes flying towards her. As she nears the table, she hooks her arm around the top of the nearest empty chair, swings it over her shoulder, then brings it crashing down on Frejir's head. The wood splinters, shards flying all over the table, and the entire inn falls silent as everyone stops what they're doing to watch the commotion.

Frejir slowly turns around, his fists clenched so tightly on the table that his knuckles are popping under the skin. There are deep scratches on the back of his right hand, scabbing over in places, the skin pink and swollen at the edges. When he sees her, his eyes narrow, his eyebrows dropping forward into a scowl.

"What do _you_ want?" he demands.

"Wow," Natasha says, "I never knew donkeys could talk."

From the corner of her eye, she sees Thor bury his face in his hands, and Sif's eyes alight with curiosity. Fandral takes a long swig of his ale, then swings his feet onto the nearest stool, tankard resting against his thigh.

"You talk far too much for a woman," Frejir says.

Natasha shrugs, takes her phone from her pocket, and before he can question what she's doing, she zooms in her camera and takes photographs of the scratch marks on the back of his hand, securing two rather blurry shots before she finally gets a sharp image. She tosses the phone over her shoulder and is relieved to hear the sound of it being caught. Frejir looks past her to the table where Thor and the others are, and his lip curls.

"You and the Lady Sif are new friends? I'm not sure which of you would be the worse influence on the other."

"Neither am I," Natasha says coolly. "But I'll be sure to leave a few bits of you for her to play with later. If I'm feeling generous."

Her incendiary words do the trick, and Frejir moves, quick as a flash, his fist flying out to connect with Natasha. She grabs his fist and twists it, tendons straining under the skin. Frejir yells, but then shakes her off quickly, his brute strength more than capable of flinging her to one side. She falls into a group of drunken patrons, who catch her and toss her back towards Frejir. She uses the momentum to her advantage and swipes her leg out at the backs of Frejir's knees. He falls down, and Natasha takes the opportunity to laugh openly in front of him while he scrambles to his feet.

"You're such a disappointment," Natasha says loudly. "But, I imagine I'm not the first woman to tell you that."

Frejir growls, and apparently, she's hit a nerve, because this time, she gets exactly what she wants. Frejir's hand closes around her neck and he slams her into the wall. She's blinded by whiteness for a moment, and rakes in as much oxygen as she can through her constricted windpipe. With his left hand, Frejir grabs the back of Natasha's hair, pulling at her clip.

"Where's your secret weapon?" he growls. "You'll not get me again with that!"

He's right, she won't be using Frigga's dagger to get her out of this one, because she wants to make sure that she bruises good and proper. Over Frejir's shoulder, she can see Thor's jaw hanging low, his hands gripping his hair. Fandral has stood up, fingers closed around the hilt of his sword, and Sif swallows nervously, her hands flat on the table. Natasha thinks she might be about to launch herself into the fray, but she gives them the most discrete thumbs up that she can manage, and she sees Sif relax, just a little. Thor looks no less worried, and Fandral remains on his feet.

When she feels her lungs start to burn, Natasha decides that she's probably going to have plenty of bruises, and without hesitation, brings the heels of her palms slamming into Frejir's temples. Stunned, he releases her, stumbling back, and deciding to finish her performance with a flourish, Natasha flips herself over, securing her thighs around his neck and sends him crashing to the floor.

Natasha's chest is heaving, her heart thudding loudly in her ribcage, and Frejir is groaning on the floor. She nods towards the exit, and that's as much instruction as Thor, Sif and Fandral need to join her in making a swift exit. She never imagined she'd be pleased at the fact that her neck muscles feel strained, her windpipe fragile, and her skin burning from where Frejir's fingers dug so hard into it.

"You are _insane_," Thor says when they're clear of the inn.

"Am I?" Natasha replies, her breath fogging in the chilly night air as she strides back towards the palace. Thor shakes his head, his fists still clenched at his sides, his face paler than usual.

"You know, I rather thought he had you there for a moment my dear, but you certainly showed him! Bravo!" Fandral flashes a grin at her as he hurries along beside her, his collar flapping in the breeze.

"Thanks," Natasha says with a smile. "Are the bruises showing yet?"

"Only a little," Sif says, peering at Natasha's neck. "Oh and that thing you did with your legs?"

"Yeah?"

"You _have_ to teach me that."

Natasha looks over at the grinning Sif and smirks. "Maybe later."


End file.
